


Dur’sal’in’dial’lath’in

by K4t3yK4t



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Semi-Canonical Character, other characters to be added - Freeform, semi-canonical dialog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7720180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K4t3yK4t/pseuds/K4t3yK4t
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silas, formerly of Clan Lavellan, has been through much in his life. Now, though, there is a tear in the sky, a madman threatening to destroy everything anyone has ever known, and a roguish, charming Tervinter mage who promises to be Silas' undoing. Some things, though... Some things are still better left unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Still a Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first attempt in a very, very long time at a multi-chapter fanfic. I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> The title translates to "Beneath the Mask is Where the Heart Resides"
> 
> As the title suggests, there's going to be some Elvish in the story. I will try to always include a translation in the footnote, (but if I miss it please let me know!) These sentences and translations are of my own working, and may not match what other people have translated. Any Elvish spoken is translated with much thanks to **FenxShiral** and their fantastic _Project Elvhen._
> 
> All Dragon Age Inquisition characters belong to Bioware, with the exception of Silas, who's obviously my OC Lavellan.

_“What’s going on here?”_

_“Run while you still can! Warn the others!”_

_“Dispose of the elf.”_

Pain. That was the first thing Silas remembered clearly. Among the thousands of scattered shards of _self_ that were slowly drawing back toward a whole, the current that ran through it all was one of blinding, consuming pain. But he was not dead. Silas knew that, deep in the part of him that had been torn open and re-wrought differently than before. He was not dead.

Death would have been preferable. That was the last thing he remembered as darkness consumed him again, with glints of silver flashing in the corner of his mind, and an unholy scream…

He awoke to the sound of dripping water and the musty, airless scent that permeated Shem-wrought places below ground. He was cold, and ached all over, as if he had not moved for days. Something wet was seeping through his breeches. A low groan slipped past his lips unbidden and he tried to move, only to be met with a soft _clink_ and restriction. His eyes opened then, to discover that he was kneeling on a hard stone floor that was drenched with meltwater. His arms were bound at the wrist by a set of heavy iron manacles, and his hand… _By the Dread Wolf, what is wrong with my hand?_

The appendage glowed with a sickly green light that seemed to permeate from a cut-like mark in the centre of his palm. It flared while he examined it, as if in response to the scrutiny. Silas clenched his teeth against the pain, and when he caught a familiar, pungent scent, like just before a lightning strike, a chill shot down his spine that had little to do with the temperature of his cell - for that is likely where he was.

_The Fade… The Fade is coming out of my hand._ The thought seemed ludicrous even as he thought it, but he had no time to ponder the concept further. A door before him that had previously escaped his notice slammed open, granting entry to two imposing looking human women. One, whose dark hair was braided and looped in a crown atop her head as though to appear cropped, wore a lethal-looking silverite longsword, and a set of mail armour whose breastplate gleamed dully in the meagre light of the cell. Her companion wore lighter armour, probably some sort of leather dyed in dark hues, and had a cowl pulled up over her head. Silas thought it was likely to conceal the strikingly red hair that peeked out around her face beneath the hood.

“Tell me why we should not kill you right now.” The dark-haired warrior demanded, her thick accent rolling syllables unfamiliarly. Silas frowned, taking a moment to parse out what she said. The darkening crease between her heavy brows suggested that she did not take kindly to the delay.

“I don’t know,” he replied finally, and the woman snarled. Silas turned his amethyst gaze up to her at the sound, meeting her gaze headlong. She lunged forward, then caught herself, stalking a circle around him as if she were determining which side was best to attack from.

“What do you mean _you don’t know_?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, Shemlen,” Silas bit out, baring his teeth in a grimace. The woman’s eyes lit with barely restrained fury, and she lunged again, her small but extremely firm grip coming around his wrist, hauling it unnecessarily into his line of sight.  
  
“Then explain _this_ ,” She snarled, and his hand snapped back, sparking and crackling like oil on a flame. Silas growled himself, and the warrior threw his hand down, backing off.

“Do you expect me to give you all the answers, then?” Silas bit out, curling the hand as much as he could against his chest, which was heaving as he resisted the urge to retch.

“Perhaps we should start with _one_ ,” The warrior growled back. “The Conclave is destroyed, everybody is dead. Everybody except _you_.”

“Believe me, they’re the lucky ones.” That was likely the wrong thing to say, but Silas didn’t care. The warrior flung herself forward, her hands stretched out into claws as if to gouge him open herself. The redhead - who had been quiet up until now, and who gave Silas the uncanny impression of the more dangerous out of the two - intervened, stepping between Silas and the warrior, her arm thrown out.

“We need her, Cassandra!”

Any gratitude that Silas had felt for the woman evaporated immediately, and when she turned to him with a carefully gentle expression, it was quickly replaced with surprise as he all but lunged at her against his bonds, a snarl ripping from his chest. Around him, Silas heard the grating metallic noise of about ten swords being drawn at once, including Cassandra’s.

“I am _not_ a girl!” Silas snarled, heliotropic eyes blazing with his conviction, glaring at the woman in a silent dare to tell him otherwise. Magic rippled over his skin, an electric current that danced and spiked, and the mark on his hand flared, seeming to throb with his heartbeat. The redhead scrutinised him for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her calculating expression eased after a moment, and she waved her hand at the surrounding guards.

“Stand down. It seems I was mistaken.” Her gaze was carefully neutral, and Silas glared all the more for it, but when she next spoke, her tone was softer, and somewhat apologetic. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

Silas sat back on his heels, as comfortable he could get in the position he’d been bound in. Then, suspicion suddenly gave way to exhaustion, and he slumped a little, his shackles clinking heavily against the stone floor. He could feel the metal chafing against his skin, and some part of him wondered how long he’d been bound for, before waking.  
  
“Not… Not much of anything,” he admitted, shrugging. “I remember waking up, sort of… Everything was on fire and I could smell burnt… Burnt…” _Flesh. You smelled burnt flesh._ He did not want to say it though, and, swallowing, pressed on. “I remember trying to get out, but… Something started chasing me…” _Many limbed and larger than anything that kind had any right to be, horribly disfigured, screeching…_ Silas shrunk away from the memory, shaking his head as if to dislodge it. “There was a woman…”

“A woman?” The redhead repeated, disbelief heavy in her tone. Behind her, the warrior - Cassandra - made a derisive sound through her nose. Silas scowled at the both of them.

“What's the point of questioning me if you've already made your opinions? What's going on, anyway? You said… You said everyone at the Conclave was dead.” The two women looked at one another. The redhead’s nod was barely perceptible.

“Go to the forward camp Leliana, I will take… Him… To the Rift.” Cassandra said gruffly to the redhead, already moving to exchange Silas’ metal bonds for rope.

“What _did_ happen?” Silas asked when Cassandra knelt by him. She glanced at him, then helped him to his feet.

“It… Will be easier to show you.”

* * *

 

Silas barely registered the cold that bit into his wet breeches. His attention was far too focused upon the churning, roiling mass of sickly green in the sky that cast everything in an unnatural verdant hue. The same sharp ozone smell permeated the air, and the Fade-tear in his hand seemed to call out to its larger counterpart in the sky.  

“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra explained, her gaze fixated on the eerie sight, “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour.” She turned to face Silas then, to see his reaction. “It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

It felt like Silas’ brain was struggling to catch up with what he was seeing. The Breach churned ominously, promising change and destruction and terror and death.

“An explosion…. _Can’t_ do that…” Silas only realised he’d spoken aloud when Cassandra answered him.

“This one did. Unless we act, the breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

The Breach flared, as if to prove the warrior’s point. Silas very quickly found himself on his knees, blinded with pain. An instant later, Cassandra was hauling him to his feet, her stern mouth set into a grim line.

“It's killing you,” it wasn't a question; when he looked, Silas could see the thing in his hand had already expanded, slicing across his palm like cracks in spring-thinned ice. The warrior spoke again, but Silas didn't hear it. _I'm going to die after all… Heh… What are the chances…_

Cassandra cleared her throat, and Silas came back to reality, realising he missed what she'd just said. _Whatever reality is anymore, anyway._

“Sorry, what?”

Disapproval laced her tone when she spoke again, “There isn’t much time. That thing on your hand may be the key to stopping this.”

“Stopping this? How can the mark on my hand stop this? We don’t even know what it _is!_ ” Silas demanded incredulously, his brow furrowing into a disbelieving frown. “We need time to study it, learn how it's connected to the Breach, to the Fade itself!”  
  
“Whatever it is, it may be able to close the Breach. Whether or not it can is something we will discover shortly.” Cassandra’s reply was blunt, dogged. Silas realised that this was a desperate show of Cassandra’s faith; the need to believe things would turn out for the better. He couldn't remember when he felt that kind of optimism, about anything, let alone something as pessimistic as the end of the world. Belatedly, he found himself envious of the woman's faith, and his opinion of her shifted, softened. _In another life, perhaps… We may have been friends._

“But how do you _know_ any of this _?”_ Silas persisted regardless, his curiosity getting the better of him. Cassandra glanced at him, making guttural noise that somehow relayed a sense of embarrassment.

“You… Were unconscious for several days. We studied the mark on your hand, as much as we could, while we attempted to ensure it would not kill you outright.” Her tone changed then, jolting as if a thought literally struck her. “I realise… I do not know your name.” She looked at him, and Silas nearly grinned at her expression. It was so very familiar...

“My name is Silas. The redhead called you Cassandra, right?”

“Yes,” Cassandra looked like she was going to ask a question, then, shrugging, turned away, facing the way ahead once more. _No interrogation? That's weird.._

“You said you studied my hand.. _You_ obviously didn't, otherwise you'd have phrased your earlier questions differently. It must have been another mage.” The thought both excited and terrified Silas; he'd been told stories of Circle mages, and of their Templar watchdogs. He didn’t know how he felt about either party poking at his hand while he was unconscious and unable to defend himself. _But now that they are at war with one another…_

“It was, a mage, yes. He is ahead, past the second bridge.” Cassandra glanced at Silas, and seemed to notice something in his expression, because in a gentler tone, she added, “he is an elf.”

_Oh great…_

* * *

 

As it turned out, getting to the Breach grew more difficult the closer they got to it. Cassandra had cut Silas’ bonds once they reached the first bridge, which he was grateful for. He listened to her explanations as they travelled; it almost sounded to him as if she were apologising for the behaviour of the people back in Haven, including, Silas thought, herself.

The green-lit world was covered in snow and ice. _Whomever thought having the Conclave in the dead of winter obviously has never been in these mountains before._ The snow was light though, and the road heavily trampled; passage was relatively unhindered by the elements. Silas knew that could change in a moment, though, and the urgency of the weather hastened his step as much as the Breach did.

Cassandra explained to him, unnecessarily, the purpose of the Conclave; the Shemlen were infighting between their mages and those who controlled them until it became too much for both sides, and they called a truce. Their religious leader orchestrated the meeting, and they all came… and they all died.

After a particularly vicious pulse from the mark on his hand, Silas was surprised at Cassandra’s firm grip on his shoulders. She helped him to his feet, steadied him. He offered her a grateful smile. She surprised him again by _almost_ returning it, instead stating that their destination was nearby, and observing the increased frequency of the pulses. _I hadn't noticed,_ he thought in dry retort.

“So…” He began hesitantly after a few moments of silence, “If everyone died at the Conclave, how did I survive the blast?” He wasn't sure he wanted to know… But for all accounts, he should be dead. The mark flickered in his clenched hand, benign for the moment.

The question seemed to make Cassandra uncomfortable. When she began speaking, Silas understood why.

“They… They say you stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious…” Cassandra replied haltingly, as if trying to wrap get mind around the words as her tongue formed them, “they say a woman was in the rift behind you… No one knows who she was.” Silas looked over his shoulder at her in time to see her staring at him with a curiously pensive expression on her face. Hairs prickled on the back of Silas’ neck and he looked away, a barely remembered nightmare tugging at the corners of his mind. Silas shied from the promise of pain, and instead focused on not tripping over errant, snow-covered rocks. The further through the pass they travelled, the more irregular the terrain became, and Silas’ dexterity was only as good as his attentiveness.

Further still, to another bridge. This time, though, luck was not on their side. Halfway out the Breach pulsed again, belching a boulder that was at least as large as a Shemlen hut. They had no time to get out of range before the meteorite careened into the bridge, destroying thousand-year-old stone and sending them all plummeting to the frozen river below. Silas couldn’t hear his own shout over the cascade of debris, and landed heavily in the jagged rubble, rolling and coming to a stop on the crystalline ice.

Groaning, Silas rose to his feet, his Fade-marked hand clenched tightly against the pain, his unmarked hand pressing against his brow to stop his head from splitting open. Cassandra was scrabbling on the ice a little ways in front of him, her feet trying to find purchase on the slick surface.

“Are you alright?” Silas called to her, waiting until the world stopped tipping before looking around.

“Fine, let’s-” She was cut off by another meteorite, which roared down toward them and landed a few feet away, kicking up ice and dirt and rock. From the meteorite, Silas was horrified to see a demon emerge… Then another. “Stay behind me!” Cassandra called, her tone as sharp as her newly drawn blade. She charged the first demon a moment later, leaving the second to turn its attention on Silas.

_Anduril’s ass I’ll stay behind._ Silas thought, casting around for anything, _anything_ to ward off the shade with, _something_ to channel his magic. He looked behind himself, and noticed that among the debris had been a crate of weapons… Which included a mage staff. _Huh… Well… That’s convenient._ Silas dove for the staff, snatching it up and rolling into a crouch. Magic surged within him, electricity crackled, and then a bolt of lightning came crashing down on the demon’s head, eliciting an ear-piercing scream of mingled pain and rage. _Yeah, sucks when your prey has teeth too, huh?_  

It felt good to have a staff in his hands again, it had been far too long.. _Don’t reminisce, survive._ The shade was advancing again, and Silas smirked, making a slashing motion with his staff in front of him. Fire erupted in its wake, catching the shade full in the face. _These ones seem stupid in comparison to the ones I’ve faced before… Or, perhaps, just disoriented? Falling from the Fade into this world likely isn’t a pleasant experience._ Silas could feel some of his old curiosity sparking again, and he grinned wildly, dancing back away from the shade and throwing up a barrier around himself as another took interest.

The fight did not take long. Out of practice though he was, Silas still knew the magic that danced around him as easily as he knew how to breathe. With a final slash of his staff blade at a too-close shade, the battle was won. _The war, however…_ He turned with delight in his violet eyes toward his fighting companion, only to be met with the sharp end of her blade.

“Drop your weapon. _Now._ ” The look on her face brooked no argument, and there was something around her since the fight, something… Silas’ eyes widened and he took an involuntary step back. Cassandra’s eyes hardened, narrowing in warning.

_Templar. She’s a templar. How did I not notice before? And I used magic right in front of her, oh_ shit. The elation he had felt at their victory popped like a soap bubble. Silas held his hands up, palms out in a gesture of forfeit; however the staff rested against his right shoulder in front of him.

“I said _now_ , Silas.”

_I have to try…_ “Cassandra,” Silas hedged, hoping against hope that the rapport they’d managed to create on the hike to this point was enough. “You know as well as I do that I don’t need this staff to use my magic... I haven’t used it on you yet.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me? You nearly attacked Leliana in the prison.” Her voice was still hard, but the edge was gone. Silas took a deep breath. _So that’s how it’s going to be?_

“She called me a girl. I don’t like being called something I’m not. You’d be pretty aggressive too, if, say, I called you Orlesian instead of… Sorry where are you from? I can’t place your accent.” _Maybe if I distract her?_

It did seem to befuddle Cassandra to be asked something completely off-topic. “Nevarra,” She answered, almost automatically, her blade hand lowering for a moment. She raised it again, but then after a moment’s thought, shook her head and sheathed the sword. “You are right. I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenceless… I certainly wouldn’t want to be.”

There were more demons along the rest of the way. Cassandra didn’t seem to mind so much that Silas fought beside her, destroying enemy wraiths and demons before she was even within range. It was so curious; whenever the Fade-being died, it disintegrated, seemingly back toward the Breach from whence it came. Silas was itching to find out more. A doorway between the waking world and the Fade was nearly unheard of. _Keeper would be beside herself… No… Don’t think about Keeper. For all they know, their plan worked and you’re dead. Best it stay like that…_

After a few more frozen miles, Silas was beginning to feel the cold. He’d left his furs back in his - now likely non-existent - camp, and the wind was colder this far up. He shivered, and resisted the urge to blow fire into his hands… It probably wouldn’t help his present circumstances. _Remember that you’re still a prisoner… A prisoner who is following freely, and armed… But still a prisoner._  Silas didn’t really know why he _was_ sticking around. Perhaps he did, in some small scale, feel responsible for what happened; he certainly wasn’t the kind of person to risk his life for the benefit of others. _Fuck no. Where has “for the good of the clan” ever gotten me?_

Cassandra snapped him out of his reverie. “We’re getting close to the rift. You can hear the fighting.”

Silas frowned, straining his ears. He _could_ hear fighting, though it was dependent upon whether the wind was blowing in their direction or not. It didn’t sound like a very large fight. One thing was certain, however; there was another mage fighting there. He could taste the mage’s particular brand of magic on the wind; sharp and earthy, with a shock of cold through it that had nothing to do with the mountain temperatures. Silas could feel the pull of it, and he instinctively drew the Fade closer around himself. Whatever magic the other mage wielded, it certainly wasn’t Circle trained. No Shemlen mage felt like _that_.

On the rise, Silas was met with a horrific sight. Suspended in the sky above a small party of skirmishers was a tear like the one thousands of feet above them, just smaller. The mark on his hand crackled as if in warning, and moments later, a new wave of demons and wraiths emerged from the Rift. Around the fight, a pair of supply wagons blazed, and the remains of a now inaccessible bridge altered the terrain. A handful of foot soldiers clashed with the Fade-beings, along with the mage he felt before. There was also a sturdy-looking blonde dwarf, wielding the most complex repeating crossbow Silas had ever seen.

Faster than he would like to have admitted, Silas leapt down and joined the fray. Cassandra dropped down beside him, tearing off after an armoured shade that had one of - presumably _her soldiers_ \- cornered. Silas saw the other mage glance at him, felt them both drawing on the Fade that was _so_ _close_ here, at the same time, drawing the attention of the surrounding demons. Silas understood where the iciness he’d sensed in the other mage’s magic came from when a shade froze stiff less than two feet from him, shattering like broken glass in the next instant. He nodded at the other mage, then turned to the next enemy.

Lightning crackled along his skin, a constant current. With each spell his lips wordlessly formed, the more familiar they became, the more he innately remembered the motions, and the more fluid those motions became. Reaching out to the creature he fought, he called on a chain of lightning that touched down on it and several other enemies in the area with an explosive crack and the sharp smell of ozone. Silas found himself laughing, his staff blade slicing through a wraith and sending it back through the Rift.

Then, suddenly, the other mage was beside him, gripping his wrist tightly. Unthinking, Silas panicked, trying to wrench his hand free, to get away.

_“Te! Telaas’esay sal’dianan!”_ Silas exclaimed, unaware that the words that passed his lips were Elven until the other elf replied in kind, his tongue forming the words with a strange, almost archaic accent.

_“Felas, da’lin. Te’nu’na, roghemah’rya.”_

The response did little to calm Silas, but before he could protest again, the other elf thrust Silas’ captured hand toward the Rift. There was a pulling sensation, and then Silas felt the oddest sense of vertigo, coupled with searing pain. He cried out and tried to pull away, but the other elf held him firm. Silas looked up, and was shocked to see a rope-like connection between the mark on his hand and the Rift, and he could feel the connection growing taunter... As though something was pulling back from the other side.

Finally, with a _snap_ and a release like none Silas had ever felt before, the Rift closed, dropping what looked like a clump of… Well, he didn’t really want to know. The other elf released his wrist and Silas staggered away from him. He only managed to take a few steps, before he dropped to his hands and knees and retched. His skin crawled, and every muscle ached as though he’d been physically beaten.

“Silas! Are you alright?” Cassandra was beside him a moment later, helping him up, letting him lean on her until he got his bearings. He gripped onto her arm until he was sure his knees wouldn’t buckle again. Once his wits returned to him, he looked around at the group of people surrounding him. They were staring with varying looks of pity, revulsion, or concern. _Nothing new there._ Only the other elf and the dwarf seemed to differ; the elf was watching him with a curious, calculating expression Silas had learned to associate with Keepers, and the dwarf was watching Cassandra fret over him with amusement written clearly on his blunt, handsome face.

“What… What happened? What _was_ that?” Silas was grateful that his voice didn’t shake. He stepped away from Cassandra with a grateful smile, and she nodded, turning her attention to her soldiers to take their report. Silas turned wary amethyst eyes on the other elf, who now looked pleased. “What did you do?”

“I did nothing,” He replied smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “the credit is yours.”

“I did-- How?” The elf smiled, and Silas felt an unusually familiar flush of pleasure. _I asked the right question._ Even still, something about this elf was off… He felt and acted like a Keeper, but he dressed and spoke in such a way that Silas had never encountered among the other clans before. And something about him just felt… _Arrogant._

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” The other elf explained. Cassandra came back to listen then, nodding like she’d heard the explanation before, and it was just confirming it to herself again. The dwarf just looked bored. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct.” _Oh yeah… Definitely arrogant._

“If the mark on your hand works on the Breach the way it did on this Rift… Then there is hope.” Cassandra interjected. To Silas, it sounded like she needed to believe it, even if it weren’t true. He honestly couldn’t blame her. The other elf nodded.

“Possibly,” He agreed, then turned his attention back to Silas with a smile that told Silas he wasn’t saying everything. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know!” A cocky, gravelly baritone exclaimed. Silas turned to the dwarf, then, arching a brow. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever!” The dwarf grinned, and Silas grinned back. _Okay, I think I like you._ “Sorry to interrupt the lecture, but I figured introductions are in order. Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at Cassandra when saying the last part, who responded by another of her gutteral noises. This time, it was exasperated disgust, and Silas’ grin widened. _Yep, I like you. And I’m going to need to hear_ that _story later._

“Silas, of-” Silas paused, a frown taking the grin’s place. Could he really use his clan’s name if they… “ _Formerly_ of Clan Lavellan.” Frowns flickered throughout the three faces around him. _Don’t ask, don’t ask…_ After a moment or two, the elf stepped forward to fill the silence.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased you are still alive.”

“Solas? Like…?”

“Yes.”  
  
“Your parents didn’t really have high hopes for you, huh?” Solas’ expression changed minutely, from neutral to dangerous. Silas raised his hands in surrender, realising what he’d said, and how it must have sounded. “Sorry, uh… You’re the one that studied my hand while I was out cold then?”

“I am,” The other elf sounded irate now, and his eyes were still narrow. Silas felt like kicking himself. _Maybe that would dislodge my foot from my mouth…_  

“Uh… Thank you,” Silas said sincerely, and meant every ounce of it. His contrite expression seemed to ease some of the sting from his previous comment, and the set in Solas’ shoulders eased. He shook his head, and when he looked at Silas again, the neutral expression was back in place.

  
“You are welcome, _da’lin_.” He turned away from Silas then, as a teacher does from a disruptive student. “Cassandra, you should know…”


	2. Herald of Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silas, formerly of Clan Lavellan, has been through much in his life. Now, though, there is a tear in the sky, a madman threatening to destroy everything anyone has ever known, and a roguish, charming Tervinter mage who promises to be Silas' undoing. Some things, though... Some things are still better left unsaid.

Silas fought back his irritation as they ascended the mountain path toward the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Councillor Roderick’s angry words lingered like bile in the back of his throat; not only had the blustering fool _insisted_ upon calling Silas a girl when he did not speak to him directly (for then it was just a hate-filled _‘you’_ ), he also deemed Silas a mass-murdering monster, despite Cassandra’s and - surprisingly - Leliana’s denunciations. How it came around to _Silas_ deciding where they went, he still wasn’t sure. _Since we cannot agree on our own, indeed… Fenedhis… Humans have a strange way of treating their prisoners._ He'd decided upon the mountain pass once it was mentioned that there were missing scouts up this way.. _Because I apparently care about people I don't know, now._ It was better than the alternative of forcing their way through the melee, anyway.

For a while, Silas could hear the fighting in the valley. Now, they were so high up that there was nothing but the sound of their own movement and the cold mountain wind. It howled and tore at Silas’ thin clothing and, more than once, his hand slipped on the rungs of the ladder as they climbed ever higher. When his hands weren’t busy, Silas puffed small fireballs into them, trying to warm them without burning himself. He couldn’t imagine how Varric was handling the cold; the dwarf was wearing a shirt that cut deeply open in the front, in order to display a rather spectacular amount of hair across his barrel chest. _Well, maybe the hair is more insulating than it looks._

At the top of the dizzying climb, the party reached the entrance to a cave. Silas peered in, squinting slightly in the dim light. All he could see stretching in toward the blackness was slick blue ice. The smell that wafted up from the cavernous depths promised a dampness that would do little to ease the cold settled into their bones.

“What sort of cave is this, do any of you know?” Silas asked the group, turning back to look at them. Cassandra picked her way closer, peering in beside him. Silas reached automatically to steady her, but caught the look Varric was giving him, and dropped his hand. _What's that about?_

“It was once part a mining complex, but it has been abandoned for some time. It should let out closer to where the Temple stood.” She replied in an unsure tone.

“And your missing soldiers are in there somewhere?” Surprisingly, Varric sounded less certain than the one he called “Seeker”... Whatever that meant. _I thought dwarves were okay with caves?_

“Along with whatever has detained them.” Contrary to his companions, Solas sounded positively giddy. It seemed the closer they got to the temple, the better spirits he was in. Silas thought this strange; why would one want to walk a place that saw so much death, so recently? _What’s in it for you, I wonder, hahren?_ The term of respect surprised Silas even as he thought it; Solas didn’t _appear_ an elder…. But something about him suggested that he was.

Just inside the mine, they came across more demons, although the four of them made short work of the creatures. Already, Silas could feel a sort of synergy with the others when they fought; it was something he hadn’t expected, and was unsure of how to handle. Back with the Clan, he had never truly known companionship; he was too different from the _ghi'myelanen_ , too busy for the _ajuelanen_ ... With a start, Silas realised that Keeper kept him incredibly secluded from the others. _All the easier to cast me out. You do not fight to keep a stranger in your midst._ Bitterly, Silas pushed aside the thought and pressed forward with the others.

The mine was rather beautiful, in a strange, subterranean way: a grand balcony that overlooked a drop that fell for miles into the darkness, and blue ice glittered in the light atop Silas and Solas’ staves as though it were alive. _What kind of cave has a balcony?_ A few of the rooms proved fruitful, containing items left from the mine’s previous occupants. Silas exclaimed in surprise and delight when he found some viable dragonthorn, and quickly sequestered it away into the small satchel at his hip that had somehow survived the Breach. The rest of the treasures were less precious; an old shield with some marks marring the face of it, a dull sword. Varric found some coin that they split amongst themselves, though Silas noticed that he somehow received the largest portion.

Soon, they were back outside, and met with another grisly sight; three corpses, twisted obscenely and thrown haphazardly in their path.

“No… This…” Cassandra sounded heartbroken, and was already kneeling by one of the corpses to close their eyes. On the soldier’s breastplate blazed the sunburst of the Andraste.

“This can’t be all of them, Seeker,” Varric soothed. Silas arched a brow in his direction, and saw the look of consternation on the dwarf’s face. “The rest could be holed up ahead.”

“Our priority must be the Breach,” Solas interjected briskly. The other elf had passed by the corpses without so much as a glance “unless we seal it soon, no one is safe.” Silas narrowed his eyes at Solas, bending to close the eyes of another of the soldiers. He caught Cassandra’s grateful expression and smiled.

“I’m leaving _that_ to our Elven friend here.” Varric replied smoothly, shooting Solas a disdainful look. They waited for Cassandra to say a quick prayer to Andraste to protect the soldiers’ souls until they could be retrieved, and then continued on. Silas trudged ahead of the group, once again wondering just how _he_ ended up leading this party.

Finally, the steep hill levelled out into a rocky outcropping.

“You're alive!” Cassandra exclaimed at the sight of her surviving soldiers, just at the same time Silas felt his heart sink; there was another Rift looming above the fight, surging aggressively, and spitting out demons. As Cassandra plunged ahead unto the thick of the battle, and Varric readied his crossbow, Silas fought off a staggering wave of nausea. _I don't want to do this again!_ As if reading his thoughts, Solas appeared beside him, steadying him.

“ _Rya’siljosaas, da’len_ ”

“What else is new?” Silas replied dejectedly in the common tongue. Solas searched Silas’ face, a frown crumpling his bare brow, but Silas waved away the look. “I'll do it. Just… Just tell me when.”

The addition of their party to the soldiers  made the fight against the demons almost laughably easy. All too soon, Silas turned toward the Rift and, hesitantly, reached toward it. Unlike the first time, Silas had to hunt for the right spot to connect to the Rift, sensing where the Fade was the weakest. When he found it, Silas felt again the sharpness of the connection, the pulling sensation like there was someone else on the other side of the rope of violently green light. Silas braced himself in the waking world, pulled harder… He tasted the crackle of lightning, and with a thunderclap and a flash of light, the Rift closed, once again dropping it's… Remnants.

He staggered, and this time, it was Solas who caught him. His body trembled again, but he stayed standing, didn't retch. Solas eased him to his feet, a hand on his back to steady him. He looked… _Proud. He’s proud of me._

“You are becoming quite proficient at this,” Solas commented, and Silas felt a glow of pride himself. He straightened as Varric came over, clapping Silas on the back.

“Good job, kid.”

“It was… Easier than the first one.” Silas admitted, shy in the face of so much praise. Solas nodded, his disposition becoming scholarly.

“And it will continue to do so, as you grow used to your new closeness with the Fade.” He frowned a moment, then asked, “you are a mage, but you do not seem to be comfortable with your magic. Were you trained, or self-taught?”

Silas flushed with the force of several emotions, shame being strongest amongst them. “Keeper trained me a little, but… Then she stopped.” Seeing Solas open his mouth to reply, Silas added, “I would prefer not to talk about it just now.” Solas closed his mouth and nodded, though the grave expression on his face told Silas that this wouldn't be the end of the conversation.

Just then, one of the soldiers came up to them. She looked nervous and worn out from the fight, but snapped into a salute when Silas turned to her.

“Lady Cassandra told us that you suggested coming this way. If you hadn't, we'd all be dead now. Thank you… We owe you our lives.” She smiled, and then without waiting for an answer (for Silas was too stunned to give one, and it must have shown on his face) she turned to begin helping her more wounded companions down the mountain. Beside him, Varric chuckled.

“You’re all right, Bristles. Come on, best get this over with.” Grinning up at him, Varric moved on ahead, toward where Cassandra was already waiting for them. Silas started after him, confusion crumpling his brow.

_Bristles?_

* * *

_Mythal’s mercy, that’s a big Pride demon!_ Not that it had been going spectacularly _before_ the Pride demon showed up, but _damn._

Before the loud echo of the Pride demon’s laughter shattered the air, the trek to the ruined Temple had been uneventful. Any banter that was present, Silas felt wholly unprepared to join, though he more than made up for it in observations. It seemed that Solas knew much more about the Fade than he was letting on, likely because he was in Cassandra’s presence. Speaking of Cassandra, she and Varric seemed to have some history that caused them to vacillate between flirting and bickering so fast that sometimes, Silas wasn't sure where one stopped and the other began.

Then they got to the Temple itself, and all chatter stopped. Around them was a graveyard like nothing even Silas’ worst nightmares could conjure. What used to be walls and vaulted ceilings were naught more than rubble in a destruction-forged valley. Bodies littered the ground, and further in, were frozen in the place of their death, some even upright in morbid, twisted effigies of their last agonised moments. _One thing is for sure,_ Silas had thought as they passed by, _you can’t tell who was a templar, and who was a mage… Not anymore._ Funny, how death was the great equaliser.

In their silence, however, another voice had rung out, disembodied and filling the valley. Silas flinched at the sound of it, moved more quickly, even despite Cassandra’s frantic demands.

“You _were_ there!” She’d exclaimed, accusation filtering into her tone and making Silas flinch again. She had started to question him again as they got closer to the Breach, but Silas cut her off.

“Cassandra, I truly _don't remember_ . Please,” he left it at that, not really knowing what he was pleading for. _Patience, perhaps._

And now, they were fighting the biggest Pride demon Silas had ever seen. Its laughter resonated through the ruins, through Silas’ very bones, and it whispered to him, to his own wounded pride. _You cannot have me,_ Silas thought darkly, shooting fire and lightning at the beast from his borrowed staff. _I have no pride left for you to feed upon._ It seemed distracted, anyway, focusing on the others, only turning to Silas when he became annoying. Instead, Silas focused on the Rift above them, and the Shades it spat out in retaliation against his efforts to close it.

It was massive, and was the first that Silas had needed to open again before closing. Deep green crystalline shards surged and retracted, and it would not close. Unlike the others, it was a wider tear, Silas could feel it. His hands shook with the effort of drawing it closed each time, but he knew, somehow, that if he took a break, if he paused at all, all his work would be undone. _So close… If I could just…_

With a cry of outrage, the Pride demon came crashing to its knees, overwhelmed by the onslaught of so many combatants. This time, though, something in the Rift changed, and Silas felt it _shift_ ; it felt more like the Fade he knew, now, rather than the churning, furious tear it had felt like before. This time, when Silas reached, it came more willingly, it took less effort to pull, less effort to hold it closed. Black spots danced in front of his eyes, but he had to keep going, he _could not let go_ . His marred hand was nearly vibrating with the force of the connection, and Silas dug into the waking world, braced himself and _pulled_ \--

The Rift suddenly snapped closed, and Silas went sprawling from the release of tension. A pulse shot up from the newly closed Rift toward the Breach, and when the pulse reached it, the Breach _swallowed_ it. Before they had time to think, let alone move, the Breach drew a final breath… And imploded. The shockwave it sent out was spanned across the sky, a vanguard of tremors sending the people around Silas to their knees at its might. Then, as the force of the shockwave reached them, Silas smelled ozone, heard the laughter of a ghost… and knew no more.

* * *

 

When Silas awoke, the first thing he saw were wooden beams. _What?_ Everything hurt, and he groaned a little when he shifted in the… _Bed? I’m lying in a bed?_ Yes, it was a bed; he could feel the thick furs and supple fabrics beneath his bare hands, and hard the crackle of the straw-. _My hand… The Breach…_ Silas sat up sharply, and nearly jumped out of his skin when there was a cry of surprise and the clatter of something being dropped.

“I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” Exclaimed the elven girl that had apparently dropped her cargo. Silas stared at her uncomprehendingly, not entirely sure why that was a problem.

“It's alright, I didn't mean to frighten you. Where -” he tried to ask, but he faltered to a stop when the girl dropped to her knees and prostrated herself before him. _What the--?_

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing… I am but a humble servant,” the girl intoned into the floor, effectively missing Silas bewildered expression. “You're back in Haven, my-” She glanced at him quickly, hesitating. “Um…”

“I'm male,” Silas interjected, gentler than usual, and the girl blushed.

“A thousand apologies my lord!” Normally, Silas would have gotten irritated, but the girl was so pathetic that he couldn’t bring himself to be. Instead, he approached her and helped her to her feet. The poor thing was wide-eyed and trembling where she stood, reminding him of a Halla fawn.

“It's fine… Get up, why are you grovelling on the ground like that? What happened?”

“They say you saved us, my lord-”

“Please stop calling me that,” Silas interjected uncomfortably. The girl trembled like she wanted to bow again, but valiantly stayed on her feet.

“My apologies m- um, Sir. They say you stopped the Breach from growing. It's all anyone's been talking about for the last three days!” She jumped, as if remembering a harsh command, and added, “Lady Cassandra will want to know you've awoken, Sir. She said “at once.”’ Before Silas could ask where Cassandra was, the girl has taken off to, presumably, tell the Seeker that Silas wasn't dead.

 _Well, that was informative._ Silas thought sardonically, hunting around the room for his gear. To his surprise and chagrin, it was nowhere to be found; in its place was a much better set of armour, but obviously human-forged. A little less supple than something old Ajuenain would make, but it was serviceable. Properly clothed and armed, Silas took a deep breath. _The Breach is closed, but not gone… I can see the green in the sky through the window…_ Which meant that they’d still likely have use of him, and that the trial Cassandra promised him would be, for the moment, put off. _Right up until I’m no longer useful._ Upon leaving the cottage he’d been resting in, however… Silas was met with an incredible, completely inexplicable sight.

Before, the people of Haven had muttered darkly about the “knife ear” as he passed, casting him disgusted, hateful looks and bidding the “Maker take him.” He didn’t like it, but he understood; they thought he killed their holy woman. Now though… Now, they were bowing, some raising their hands in prayer, swaying on the spot as the recited their holy words. There were no looks of hatred… Quite the contrary; people were looking at him like-- _Oh, Fen’Harel take you all! I am_ not _your saviour!_ But it appeared, Silas realised with a desperate look around, that they believe he was. Whispers buzzed through the crowds as he passed them. The most repeated, and Silas resisted the urge to laugh and cry simultaneously when he heard it clearly, was “Herald of Andraste.” _The gods have a sense of humour… If these people only knew. Herald of Andraste my ass…_

He made it to the Chanty without too much cloying from the worshippers - all incredibly devout now, of course. The building was fully lit and had more people in it than he last remembered. They were all bowing, too. _Ugh…_ Silas tried to ignore them as he made his way toward the main doors straight ahead of him. It didn’t take long for raised voices to filter back to him through the wood.

“Have you gone completely mad? She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine!” _Ah… Abject hatred. Much more familiar._ This, this he could work with.

Feigning more bravado than he truly felt, Silas strode through the doors, letting them swing back on their hinges. The resultant _crack_ as the doors struck the stone wall  effectively ended the conversation, and all eyes within the room turned to him.

“I am _male_ , Chancellor, and unless you have any bright, equally effective ideas about how you intend to close the Breach for good _and_ discover the true murderer of your Divine, I _suggest_ you shut up and go back to your paperwork.” Around the room, Silas was met with blank, sometimes horrified stares. The redhead’s, Leliana’s, lips twitched, and she ducked her head to keep anyone from seeing.

“How _dare_ you speak to me in such a way!” the Chancellor blustered, outrage clear on his face. “Chain her… Him… _Whatever!_ Seize the elf at once and prepare for transport to Val Royeaux for trial!”  
  
“Disregard that,” Cassandra cut in, not taking her eyes off the Chancellor, “and leave us.” Her eyes narrowed as the Templars saluted and left, and she advanced upon the Chancellor, who took an involuntary step back in deference to her presence. “The Breach, and those behind it, are still a threat, Chancellor Roderick. I will _not_ ignore that.”

Silas leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Still a suspect then? I would have thought nearly killing myself to nullify the Breach would have been proof enough of my innocence.”

“You are _absolutely_ still a suspect you-”

“He is absolutely _not_ , Chancellor,” Leliana interjected this time, striding forward with an easy, predatory grace. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave, and it was someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others – or have allies who yet live.” She tilted her head in assessment, and the Chancellor expanded with indignation. 

“You think _I_ am a suspect?”  
  
“You, and many others,” Leliana replied nonchalantly.

“But not the prisoner?”  
  
“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Silas commented, brushing non-existent dust from his new tunic, “I’m the _Herald of Andraste_ now. Can’t be a prisoner if I’m your Maker’s godsend, now can I?” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Cassandra pinch the bridge of her nose as if trying to stave off a headache, and he heard a barely audible groan that made it very hard for him not to grin. _Stop being an ass, Silas, you’re digging yourself far enough already… Even if it_ is _easier than nug-baiting to get this man riled._

The Chancellor looked between Silas and the two women present, his hand clenching and unclenching beside him in impotence. “So he- _his_ survival, that _thing_ on his hand – all a coincidence?” He cast around between them, as if any of them had any more insight on the issue. Cassandra and Leliana shared a look, and Cassandra stepped forward.

“Not coincidence; _providence,_ ” Cassandra looked at Silas then, with an expression that had Silas groaning internally. _Fenhedis, not you too._ “I believe that the Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour.” Seeing his expression, she continued, speaking directly to him, “I was wrong about you, before. Perhaps I am still wrong. But I will not pretend that you are not exactly what… Exactly _who_ we need, when we need it most.” Silas sighed, pushing off from the wall.

“I truly don’t know what more you want of me, but it seems like there’s little choice in the matter. I’ll help… But… How?” He looked at Cassandra, then at Leliana, “do either of you have a plan?”

“We do,” Cassandra replied, and, with more dramatic effect than Silas really thought was necessary, making both him and Chancellor Roderick jump, she slammed down a book the likes of which Silas had never seen before. It was bigger than anything he had ever read, and Silas could already feel his fingers itching to flip through the pages.

“Blessed Andraste!” Roderick exclaimed at the noise, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at the book. From his vantage point, Silas could see the cover, and the emblazon of an eye at the centre of a sunburst. _Well, that’s... different. Looks like a hairy eyeball._

“Do you know what this is, Chancellor?” Cassandra asked victoriously. It was, apparently, a hypothetical question, because moments later, she went on, “A writ from Divine Justinia herself, granting us authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

“You can’t possibly be-” Roderick began, but was quickly cut off by Cassandra advancing on him. The Seeker backed the him into a wall, jabbing him in the chest with a gloved finger.

“I am. We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order _with or without your approval_ .” Silas had to admit that he was glad he wasn’t in Roderick’s position this time. Cassandra was _terrifying_ when she got this passionate. Roderick left quickly thereafter, muttering clawless threats that were forgotten quickly as Leliana explained the gist of the Divine’s directive, the purpose of the Inquisition, and the meagreness of their current prospects. Cassandra nodded gravely along, and Silas grimaced. _This isn’t going to be easy for them at all…_

“-With you at our side.” Cassandra was saying, and Silas snapped to attention.  
  
“Wait, you want… You want me to join?”  
  
“If you wish. You are also free to leave, but we cannot protect you if you choose to do so.” Leliana smiled at him a little. Silas scowled, his brow furrowing. She was looking at him like she knew, and given his limited knowledge of her, she probably did. _I can’t go back to my clan… I have nowhere else but here. And you know it, don’t you?_

“Well, I’m the only one with the mark on my hand… What I said to Roderick is true, this _is_ the only good plan we have. So… We’ll see how this goes.”  
  
“That’s all we ask.” Leliana turned away, exiting the room to go do gods-knew-what. Cassandra turned to Silas, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Thank you for agreeing to help us.” She walked over to him, extending her hand toward him in a companionable gesture. Silas, not entirely familiar with it, reached and grasped her wrist, and she grasped his in turn.

“Well, I can safely say that I was not expecting this when I woke up.” _Inquisition, huh?_ _What’s going to happen now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ghi'myelanen_ \- hunters
> 
>  _ajuelanen_ \- crafters
> 
>  _“Rya’siljosaas, da’lin”_ \- a sentence that can be translated one of two ways: it could either mean "you must act", or, "you must behave" I thought this particularly clever since it would best translate as "you must obey" (hence Silas' response).
> 
>  _Ajuenain_ \- the name I gave Clan Lavellan's master craftsman. Because the clan only has two named members (Your Inquisitor, and Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel.) The name means "crafting spark" or more loosely, "artist’s spark". 
> 
> Of course, _da'len_ is a diminutive, typically meaning "young one." In this case (according to FenxShiral's _Project Elvhen_ lexicon) Solas is using the male variation of the term (previously, he used _da'lin_ because he was unsure of Silas' gender.)
> 
>  _hahren_ means "elder" - something that Silas would easily slip into calling Solas, especially given his history with Keeper Istimaethoriel. More of that to crop up later. 
> 
> As a linguistic side note: also according to _Project Elvhen,_ the slur _Fenedhis_ apparently translates to "wolf dick" - fantastic, huh? You can find the full translation in [Chapter 10](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7826219) of their "Expanding the Elvhen Language" (link opens in same window)
> 
> Finally, I just had to make the "hairy eyeball" comment. My first Inquisitor was a female Adaar, and I just loved that Shokrakar called the Inquisition "The hairy eyeballs" in one of their dispatches.


	3. Mages, Templars, and Horsemasters, Oh My!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting on this site is stupid.

The following days were best described as a myriad of ceremony. Silas was dragged all over Haven by Cassandra, meeting the Smith, the Quartermaster, the Apothecary. He met Minave, another Dalish outcast and the resident creature researcher. In her, Silas found someone who understood his anger at the clans. It was a huge relief, knowing he was not the only one ostracised, not the only one who rejected their people. Aside from that, Minave’s research was _fascinating._ He'd wanted to keep discussing various Rift creatures with her, but Cassandra dragged him away before he could. _What does it matter if I meet everyone?_ He complained internally, though he daren’t voice it aloud.

He met Ambassador Josephine Montilyet, a sweet Antivan woman who'd gone through the trouble of learning how to greet him in Elven, and Commander Cullen Rutherford, a broad-shouldered ex-templar. Despite his amiable disposition, being too near him still made Silas’ skin crawl in response to the residual dampening magic that hung about him. He tried to ignore that, though - the Commander didn’t seem to like talking about his life as a templar, and if Silas could handle fighting alongside Cassandra, who, Silas had learned, was a _more powerful_ version of a templar… Well, he could handle the Commander. Besides, the man was interesting to talk to - Cullen's wry wit came out at times seemingly without his knowing, and even the slightest innuendo made him blush like a maid before her first night in a lover’s bed.

Silas was unsurprised to learn that Leliana was the resident spymaster, though it explained hundredfold how she seemed to know so many things almost _before_ they happened. She was always seen with any number of people, some in Inquisition uniforms, some seemingly normal residents of Haven. Silas tried to determine if he’d seen any of them before, but they all seemed to be forgotten nearly as soon as Silas finished speaking with them. He remembered a few of their names, of course, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember their faces. When he brought this up to Leliana, she merely smiled secretively and told him that was the trait of a good spy; someone instantly forgettable, able to hide in plain sight.

Soon after introductions had been made, Silas was put to work running missions for the Inquisition. With Solas, Varric, and Cassandra accompanying him, Silas ventured into the lush, mountainous Hinterlands in Ferelden, first to escort a Chantry Mother to the Haven, and successively for any number of tasks. The Hinterlands were the most torn from the mage-templar war, and the effects could be seen in the landscape as well as the people. Over the next few months, Silas repurposed supply caches, hunted rams, rescued an elfin woman from the throes of a disease that stole her breath, and closed more Fade Rifts than he could possibly count. There was _so_ much to do, and the mountain paths and winding rivers became so familiar that Silas almost felt like he was travelling with his clan again. _Though the company is infinitely better this time around._

They were currently doing a favour for Horsemaster Dennet. It was the Inquisition’s goal to recruit Dennet - and his horses - but the old man demanded that his people be safe first. Silas couldn’t argue with that logic, so they found themselves picking their way carefully along the craggy mountainside, searching for the den of an allegedly demon-possessed pack of wolves. _I didn’t even know demons could possess animals._ A chilled breeze swept by, tugging at their clothing, and Silas shivered, longing for the warm hearth they’d woken beside that morning. It had been wonderful to finally find the old Horsemaster, and be invited to stay in one of the empty farmhouses for the evening. Waking up to the roof of a cabin instead of the roof of a tent was a small blessing, waking up _warm_ was another.

Silas was only half-listening to one of Solas’ lectures about demons and the Fade when they came upon six wolves from the pack they were hunting. The beasts’ eyes glowed green, the same unnatural, sickly green as the Fade rifts that Silas barely struggled with closing anymore. Snarling, snapping, they surrounded the Inquisition party and cut off their exits with a tactical insight that no common wolf pack should have. The largest from the pack stepped forward, its ethereal eyes glinting too-intelligently.

 _Marked one,_ it rasped, the voice filtering through the canyon, through their minds. Simultaneously, both Silas and Solas erected barriers around their party, and they could hear Cassandra and Varric readying their weapons. _Leave the marked one…. And live._ The wolf that was “speaking” turned its gaze to Silas, and five other sets of eyes followed suit in eerie synchronicity. Silas grip tightened on his staff. Before he could utter an incantation though, the large wolf fell with a cut-off yelp and a crossbow bolt between its eyes.

“Any questions?” Varric snarked from behind Silas. The remaining wolves snarled and leapt against the barriers, making the magic shudder. “Guess not,” Varric shrugged, loading another crossbow bolt and releasing it.

Fighting wolves could never be described as a _simple_ task, let alone demon-possessed wolves. Silas had more than a few bites by the time the last of the wolves that ambushed them was dead. Thankfully, his armour had protected him from the worst of it. Varric, on the other hand, was sitting on a rock with Solas tending to him with some simple healing spells. The other mage’s hands were glowing blue-white as they hovered over the fang marks that tore deeply into one of Varric’s muscled arms, while Varric made quips about the last mage he knew who used healing magic through his teeth. Cassandra was disposing of the corpses, lest they draw attention from anything else in the vicinity - or so she said. When the Seeker thought nobody was watching, she kept casting furtive, worried looks back in Varric’s direction. Silas smiled to himself, crouching down to search for tracks the wolves may have left.

They’d been surprisingly methodical in keeping their tracks hidden, moving over rock rather than impressionable earth. Silas was hard-pressed to find any tracks, but there, a recent displacement of stone, the imprint of a paw in a sandy depression, a bent Embrium plant…

“They came from this direction,” Silas called, and three heads swiveled toward him. He was standing at the mouth of a passage that led deeper into the cave. Cassandra nodded, and Silas set up a glyph to give them some respite while they took a break. Approaching Varric, Silas leaned his staff against his shoulder, and waited for the last of the dwarf’s wounds close before speaking.

“Thanks for... Not throwing me to the wolves.” He watched the dwarf’s lips quirk in a grin, and smiled back.

“Don’t worry about it, Bristles. Out here, we’re the only ones we’ve got.” He grinned up at Silas, flexing his newly-healed arm. “Besides, you know Bianca; can’t resist a chance to show off.” Silas laughed, shooting a look at the crossbow that rested against the rock Varric sat on.

“Thank you too, Bianca,” He intoned solemnly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cassandra roll her eyes. She sauntered over to the rest of them, peering at Varric’s arm as he stretched it.

“Are you well enough to continue on, Varric?” She asked. Varric scoffed softly and looked up at her, a wry grin on his face.

“Don’t let me stop you, Seeker. You certainly never have before.” He looked away before he saw the expression on Cassandra’s face change. She too turned away, and began marching briskly off in the direction that Silas had indicated. The two elves exchanged a long suffering look, and followed after her, Varric in close pursuit.

Surprisingly, the demon that controlled the wolves was less of a pain in the ass to kill than its pawns. Silas grit his teeth and jumped away from the green “portal” that opened up beneath him, just in time before the demon sprang up screeching. In retaliation, Silas launched a fireball at its face, and quickly followed it with a shock of electricity that made the long-limbed creature spasm grotesquely. It dropped, paralysed, and Silas spun his staff around, embedding the blade at the end of it deeply into the creature’s chest. Silas’ nerves grated as it released a final shriek of agony before it began to disintegrate back to the Fade, leaving a small lump of remnants still pierced by Silas’ staff.

“Eugh…” He groaned, reaching down to scoop the remnants into his bag. Now that he knew what Minave was up to with them, they could use all the help they could get.

“Well, that’s one more task down,” Varric commented, wiping blood delicately off Bianca’s ornate lathe. “What else does Dennett want us to do?”

“Go back to Haven and have Cullen set up watchtowers,” Silas replied, standing and wiping his hands off on his breeches. As nice as his own bed would be, he was loathe to return, though; all he’d hear from the moment he stepped through the gates would be how desperately he needed to go to Val Royeaux to speak to the Chantry. _Have to get around to it eventually…_ The knowledge of this did not do anything to diminish Silas’ anxiety about the matter, though, and it was with a defeated slump to his shoulders that he turned round and plodded back to their camp.

 

* * *

 

That evening, beneath the stars, Silas looked up to see Solas standing over him, looking thoughtful. Silas, who’d been staring into the fire, lost in his own thoughts, hadn’t noticed until the now-familiar winter chill of Solas’ magic dampened the heat from the flames.

“Today, while fighting that demon, you leapt out of the way,” Solas began in the tone of voice that told Silas he was thinking of magic or the Fade, or both. “Would you be interested in learning how to step through the Fade to avoid danger?” Silas straightened, and his eyes widened, and Solas smiled at him.

“You are willing to teach me, _hahren_?” He asked, uncertainty lacing his voice. The expression on Solas’ face changed, softening just slightly, and he nodded.

“As well as I can, certainly. This spell is simple, and should assist with our mission. And you seem attentive and eager. I do not see why not.” Silas could hardly contain himself; Solas was willing to teach him magic. _Nobody_ had been willing to teach him magic for years. Barely restraining his enthusiasm, Silas bowed his head respectfully.

“I would be honoured to learn from you, _hahren.”_

“Good,” Solas replied with a gentleness to his tone that Silas was wholly unused to, “we will begin tomorrow morning.”

 

* * *

 

The following morning, true to his word, Silas found Solas waiting for him by the now-cold campfire. He guided Silas to a field, in which the ground was still crisp and glittering with hoarfrost. Silas was nearly vibrating with excitement. He’d been an adolescent the last time he’d been taught anything magical, be it practice or theory. Past that point, Keeper was much more focused on young Yevwen’s newfound magic... And Silas was all but cast out as the “spare”. It broke tradition, but then again, Silas broke fundamental beliefs. _No matter which way you turn the leaf, I guess._

Solas got Silas to stop walking. Fluidly, he took another step, and Silas felt the Fade change, and Solas glowed blue a moment -- and then he was suddenly across the field, stepping smoothly as if he’d just been walking the length. In another breath and shift of the Fade, he was beside Silas once more.

“Did you feel what occurred?” He asked calmly, as if he hadn’t just translocated a full field-span. Silas scrunched his tattooed brow, assessing what his senses had told him beneath his sense of wonder.

“You stepped… And then… The Fade wrapped around you… And you were across the field.” Silas looked at Solas, saw the hint of a smile, and felt heartened. “It also got colder,” he added, realising the temperature warming slightly.

“Good,” Solas praised, and Silas basked in it. “It is winter-magic, true; Fade-stepping is indeed wrapping the Fade around yourself and stepping _through_ it momentarily. It is no different than how you draw on the Fade to call down your lightning.” Silas nodded, listening intently. He had never tried using winter-magic before; it was too much of a contrast to his meagre array of fire and lightning spells. Still, Under Solas’ patient direction, Silas began to reach toward the cold, drawing it closer around himself and watching tiny ice crystals form over the skin of his usually-warm hands. It was a familiar cold; it reminded him of the caress of winter in the Free Marches, rather than the biting, bone-deep cold that Ferelden winters promised. Idly, Silas wondered what winter-magic felt like for his mentor.

“When you feel comfortable with the cold, open yourself to the Fade and draw it around yourself. When you take a step, step _into_ the Fade. Let it carry you to the point you wish to reach - in this case, the fence post across the field.”

Silas breathed, and set himself to focusing. He found this much more difficult now than when he had been younger. Hundreds of thoughts filtered through his mind, many of which had Keeper’s disapproving voice. Silas screwed up his face in concentration, gritting his teeth against the memories. Yet still, they came.

_Your magical education has reached its end. Never before have I seen one of the People so unworthy of our ancestral magic...._

“Silas,” Solas called softly, drawing Silas back to the world around him and the task at hand. “You are caught up in a memory. Let the winter-magic wash over it, soothe it, as one uses ice to ease the sting of a burn.” Silas nodded, panting softly with his redoubled efforts. He wanted to manage this spell, he wanted to understand it. In no small part, he wanted, too, for Solas to approve of him.

“Yes, _hahren,_ ” He managed, drawing the cold closer around him, letting it chill further, closer to the bite of the Frostback, to the chill that had seeped into his bones each morning he woke in Haven, numbing him. He let it dull the roar of his emotions, let them crystallise into the perfect stillness of a winter’s morning _like this one._ It was as if time had stopped. Even the birds held their breath as Silas took one tentative step, then another, then--

The Fade wrapped around him as a parent would enfold their child. Silas breathed, and when he stepped into the Fade’s embrace, everything slowed down. He could see everything as if it were frozen in place, and he walked to the post Solas had pointed out. It was so _simple_ . When Silas was just about there, he breathed again, pressed, and the Fade fell away, leaving a light smattering of ice crystals on the shoulders of his coat and in his hair. He looked back at Solas, who nodded back at him. Silas’ heart leapt, and he resisted the urge to do the same. _I did it! I actually did it!_ He had never accomplished a spell so quickly under Keeper. He’d always been a hard study, but never had his magic been so readily at his fingertips as it was just then.

Solas gestured for Silas to return to his side, and Silas went eagerly. This time, his step was smoother, and he did not stumble quite so much upon reappearing.

“It seems you are a natural,” Solas praised. Silas saw the smile on his mentor’s face, and went a bit pink around the ears - not that it showed much on his dusky skin.

“I’m sure it was just luck, _hahren_ ,” he replied modestly, averting his gaze.  Solas chuckled, and Silas looked back at him.

“Let us return to camp before Seeker Pentaghast thinks I have stolen you away for good,” he murmured, and Silas nodded, chafing his hands together for warmth. “Doubtless you’ll like a hot meal, besides.”

“Perhaps just some tea,” Silas amended, noticing with amusement at how Solas’ nose wrinkled.

“Mh.”

 

* * *

 

Returning to Haven proved to be harder than first assumed. The fighting between the mages and templars was reaching feverish heights; every few minutes, it seemed, they were come upon by yet another cluster of rebels, from one side or the other. By the time they returned to the Crossroads, both mages were gasping for breath, their magical reserves nearly drained from keeping protective barriers around the group.

“This has _got_ to end,” Silas groused, taking the lyrium potion one of the healers offered him. “Can’t we do anything to, I don’t know… Cut them off?” His companions were strewn about the hut in varying states of repair, all of whom looked to be thinking the same thing Silas was. Cassandra was leaning up against the wall by the door, doubtlessly on vigil, her arms crossed over her chest.

“They must have strongholds somewhere along the King's Road.” She mused, beating a tattoo against her arm with two fingers. “If we found and laid waste to them, we may be able to deter them from this senseless fighting.”

“You underestimate senselessness, Seeker,” Varric interjected, “even if we do destroy them, that’s no guarantee that they’ll stop fighting. You heard the scouts; nobody’s controlling either side.” Silas frowned at this, conceding to his point, but not liking it.

“We should still try. Nobody else is doing it. It might help give these poor people some respite,” Silas asserted, his grip tightening momentarily on his staff as he felt the lyrium potion finally take effect. He preferred the taste of elfroot, but the healers were Chantry sisters, and they probably didn’t know that concoction. _Work with what you’ve got, I guess._ He looked up to see each of his companions looking at him, with varied expressions. “...What?”

“For someone initially brought with us unwillingly,” Cassandra commented, “You are remarkably eager to assist. A most uncommon trait for a Dalish mage.” Silas scowled, dropping his gaze to the staff in his lap.

“The less Dalish I act, the better.” He muttered. He didn’t let himself see the surprise on Varric and Cassandra’s faces, or the sadness in Solas’. _Don’t ask, don’t ask…._

“What did they do to you?” It was Cassandra, her voice soft, gentle. Silas looked up at her and she flinched at the expression on his face. He sighed. _Fen’Harel take human curiosity and choke on it._

“They cast me out for being who I am. Sending me to the Conclave was my Keeper’s way of trying to get rid of me for good.” Shocked silence followed. Silas focused on his staff, about what markings he’d carve into it, the feel of the magic it was enchanted with beneath his his fingertips. Anything was better than the gaping hole in his chest where “Clan” ought to have been.

“I thought that the Dalish celebrated mages,” Varric hedged slowly after a few more minutes of silence. Silas snorted, drawing his thumb across a knot in his staff, tracing the swirling grain.

“I wasn’t cast out for being a mage. Maybe, in part, for being a sub-par mage, but that wasn’t the primary reason.” He could sense the confusion in the room, but didn’t feel like elaborating. His fingers traced above the knot, to the by now well-worn grip, strips of leather braided over one another to create a simple pattern.

“But then…”

“Cassandra, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you why my clan cast me out, when you tell me about your brother. Alright?” He watched the Seeker wince, and immediately regretted bringing it up. He saw Varric frown, shift closer to Cassandra, but not obviously so. Solas watched on, silently, observing everything.

“I… Yes, alright. I understand.” Silas looked at Cassandra, surprised that she relented so easily. “Forgive me, Silas. I should have known it was painful.” Silas smiled gratefully, and she offered a small smile in return. The silence that the group fell into was not necessarily comfortable, but endurable, and Silas fell into his own thoughts. There _had_ to be some way for them to deter the fighting between the mages and templars…

“They wouldn’t be near one another,” Silas thought aloud, turning attention to him once more. “But they would try to stay along the King’s Road to raid supply caravans.” He glanced up, “What, it’s what my clan used to do.” He ducked his head again, thoughtful, “We should use Harding and her scouts to figure out where the two holdfasts are. I can send a message to Leliana to make sure she knows we’re using her people.” The group agreed, though Varric commented that it was better Silas than him, telling “Nightingale” they were using her scouts without her approval. Silas waved him off, and began to hunt around for parchment.

Harding was rather enthusiastically willing to help Silas hunt down the mage and templar camps. Silas had liked the plucky dwarf from their introduction, and she proved to be a great asset as one of Leliana’s scouts. It took her and her scouts less than a day to pinpoint where either faction were coming and going from, and she began to report directly to Silas, rather than going through Cassandra first. The Seeker commented at the beginning, but didn’t seem to mind all that much. Silas seemed to be directing the party more and more anyway, why not in this too?

‘The templars were easy to find,” Harding explained, sitting at a table and gesturing over a borrowed map, “they don’t really take pains to hide their camp. They’ve got themselves pretty snug up against the cliffside though, only one way in. There’s a _bit_ of a ledge on the outside of their perimeter, but-”

“Perfect,” Silas nodded, and Harding glanced up at him. “Ledges mean higher ground,” He explained, grinning. Harding took one look at his staff and grinned back.

“Alright then. The mages are harder to find, but I think we’ve narrowed it down to a cave in the Witchwoods on the other end of the bridge… Some idiot broke it, but even I can ford the creek,” the dwarf shrugged. “Lots of ice spires there - The cave we think they’re holed up in is protected by magic, so we couldn’t get a better idea. Sorry,”

“Remind me to coerce Leliana into giving you a pay raise,” Silas complimented, and Harding grinned.

“Always appreciated, Your Lordship.”

“Oh, Creators, Lace, don’t call me that. Just Silas, _please._ ”

“Right, sorry. In any case, Sister Nightingale wants us back at Haven, so you’re on your own now.” Harding reached over and grasped Silas’ hand, “be careful, Silas. These rebels are dangerous.” Silas smiled, patting her hand.

“You be careful too, on your way back to Haven. Thanks again for doing this,” Silas grinned, “Next round at Flissa’s is on me.”

  
“You’re on, Herald!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Recently got my hands on a physical copy of [Tessa Crowley's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tessacrowley/pseuds/Tessa%20Crowley) _Godspeaker_ and, naturally, had to drop everything and read it (again). If you haven't read _Godspeaker_ or didn't know Tessa had a book out, you should DEFINITELY read it. It's AMAZING. 
> 
> Coincidentally, it's also the inspiration for Silas' name. ; ) 
> 
> Not really any unknown Elven in this chapter, so, until next time!


	4. That Could Have Gone Worse

Harding had been right; the templars weren’t exactly being subtle. Their encampment was small, at the very least, though their heavy armour and dispelling abilities were enough to drive Silas mad. They had been fighting for what felt like hours, all because there was no way _in_. Silas’ spells bounced off harmlessly, and he could tell the others were having no better luck. He panted now, holding his staff ready behind him and watching the approach of a templar in full plate mail, a heavy tower shield borne before him. The templar was getting too close; Silas could already feel the dampening effect of his dispelling magic. _Quickly, before I can't…_ Breathe, step and-

Suddenly he was behind the templar, who was slow to turn under all his weight. Silas drove the blade of his staff between the plates in the soldier’s breastplate and sent a shockwave of lightning down the length of the imbued weapon. The templar screamed, dropping his shield, but his sword arm came around in a reflexive counter-attack before Silas could notice.

“Argh!” Silas cried out in pain as he felt the silverite edge bite into his side. He wrenched his staff out of the templar’s back and pooled his magic to fade-step again, staggering away to a safer distance. Hot, viscous blood oozed through his fingers when he tried to staunch the wound, and his other hand trembled as he fumbled for a healing potion at his belt.

“Herald!” Cassandra hacked her way toward him, blood smeared across her cheek - not hers - and urgent concern in her eyes. “Are you alright, Silas?” She asked when she got closer, her back toward him, protecting him. Silas grunted in response, and finally got the cork off his potion. He drank it down in one gulp, wincing.

“I'll live,” He managed. Something in his voice must have sounded unconvincing, because Cassandra turned to cast another worried look over her shoulder at him. In reply, Silas sunk the blade of his staff into the ground, and erected a barrier around himself.

“I'll live,” he repeated, “go make sure they don't.” Cassandra nodded and, with a battle cry that drew the attention of nearby templars, charged off to face them. From his position, Silas was able to launch enough spells to hinder the advance of the templars, though he was more concerned with keeping his barrier up. His movements were severely limited by the gash in his side, and his spellwork suffered for it. Sweat beaded on his brow, and by the time they’d finally slaughtered the last of the soldiers, Silas was down on one knee, dark spots dancing before his eyes.

The potion had done its job, the wound had at least stopped bleeding, but it was still hot and Silas worried about infection. Solas approached, his hands already glowing with the blue-white of healing magic. Silas groaned when the other mage placed his hands over the wound, relief easing his expression.

“Thank you, _hahren_ .” He breathed. Solas stayed silent, his gaze focused on mending the gash. Silas glanced over at him, his relief fading, chilling to icy uncertainty. _Have I done something wrong?_ He wondered. Solas remained quiet the length of time the healing magic took, and when he finished, he turned his gaze coolly to Silas.

“That is the best I can do in present circumstances. You shall need to see a healer once we return to Haven.” Silas quailed under the look, and nodded.

“...Yes _hahren_.” Solas nodded once, and rose, striding away to join Cassandra in stripping the corpses of useful materials.

“What crawled up his ass?” Varric pondered aloud, making his way over to Silas and sitting down beside him. “You okay, kid?”

“I think so… _Hahren…_ I mean Solas, he fixed the worst of it. I can travel.” It would hurt, but he could travel.

“Guess the rogue mages will have to wait.” Varric said, flexing his arm and stretching the muscle out. “Ever notice how healing magic leaves you stiffer than cheap nug hide?” Silas smiled, nodding.

“Yeah.. Something like that.” Silas was watching his mentor with an anxiousness that gnawed at his stomach. It must have shown on his face, because Varric nudged him a moment later.

“Relax, Bristles. That was a pretty slick move you did, and the injury could have happened to any of us. Don’t worry about Chuckles; he’ll pull around.”

“If you say so…” Somehow, though, Silas couldn’t help but shake the gnawing feeling that it was going to be just the opposite.

 

* * *

 

“Herald, if I could have a word?”

“Herald, there are some reports out of the Fallow Mire you should read,”

“Herald,”

“Herald?”

 _Creators, will it ever stop?_ Silas had been back in Haven a grand total of two days, and already the occupants were clawing to get a piece of him. He tried to hide away in his cabin, behind closed door and shuttered windows, but it didn’t seem to matter; they came anyway, at all hours, pounding on his door and brandishing sheaf after sheaf of parchment under his nose once he warily opened it.

On the brighter side, Cassandra insisted he be put on light duty until his side healed up properly. While that meant a lot more paperwork, it also meant that they’d put off the arduous travel across the Frostbacks to Val Royeaux.

Silas was en-route from his cabin to Josephine’s office in the Chantry with yet another packet of papers in-hand, when a hand reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me-”  
  
“ _Fenedhis,_ what?” Silas snapped and spun around, only to be met with a rather startled soldier in unfamiliar armour. The soldier looked a bit wary, but, remembering his task, gave Silas a crisp salute.

“Sorry to bother you if this is a bad time. I’ve a message to deliver to the Inquisition, but nobody but you has stopped.” Silas groaned, shaking his head.

“Apologies, I’ve been… Stopped by a lot of people today. What can I do for you…?”

“Cremisius Aclassi. I am here on behalf of my employer, The Iron Bull. He sent me to offer the services of his company The Bull’s Chargers to the Inquisition.”

“For a price, I assume?” Silas canted his head to one side, eyes squinting. _He’s not… He can’t be…_ The way he held himself looked too familiar, but… _How do I ask…?_

“Oh of course. The Chief never does anything for free.” Cremisius grinned. “If you’re interested, Inquisition, we’re doing a bit of work out on the Storm Coast. Come watch us in action. I promise you will not be disappointed.”

“Alright, I will. But first, you’ve been standing out here for an Age, haven’t you? Come to the tavern, I’ll buy you a drink. My name is Silas, by the way.”

“I'd never reject free ale,” Cremisius grinned again, falling into step with Silas as they turned-about and headed toward the tavern. “Just call me Krem; everyone else does.”

On the way, there was the usual staring and bowing, with the occasional whisper of “Herald of Andraste” tossed in for good measure. Silas had all but gotten used to it, but just as he held the door open for Krem, the soldier turned and squinted at him.

“You’re the one they’re talking about. The Herald of Andraste?”

“Yes, though sometimes it’s less of a title and more of a collar.” He gestured Krem inside, “Should have likely mentioned that part in the introductions, sorry.”

“No concern to me; lucky actually, that I stopped you rather than someone else. You're the one the Chief wants to work with.” They sat down at an empty table, and Silas waved Flissa down for a couple ales.

“Why?” Silas thought he probably already knew what he was going to say, but Krem’s answer surprised him.

“Didn't say; just that you interest him.” Krem took a long drag from his ale when it was set in front of him. Silas watched him all the while, trying to find some tick that would confirm to him… “Just so you know going in, The Chief is one of those Qunari. Not a problem for us if it isn't for you.” The slightly protective edge to Krem’s voice made Silas smile.

“If he's good at what he does, I don't care what he is,” Silas answered amiably. Krem puffed up, proud as a lion.

“We're the best at what we do.”

“Then I'm eager to see your company in action.”

 

* * *

 

With a name like the Storm Coast, Silas shouldn’t have been surprised that it would be so _wet_. Rain sluiced down from the heavens, soaking everything within a matter of seconds. Silas had attempted to put a spell on his tent to keep it dry, but it was to no avail. The Inquisition scouts were forced to move their camp to a rocky overhang in an attempt to find relief, while Silas and his squad hunted along the coast, following directions that Krem had given him back in Haven.

They barely heard the sounds of battle over the thunderous rain. On the beach was a group of people skirmishing, no more than thirty, counting those on either side. Even still, it seemed to be an uneven fight; foot soldiers in armour that Silas was wholly unfamiliar with clashed with a smaller band - and, now that Silas was closer, seemed to be _losing_ spectacularly.

“Tevinter soldiers!” Cassandra shouted, giving name to those in the strange, spiky armour.

“There’s Krem!” Silas called back, spotting the soldier he’d spoken with before. Then, near Krem, taking on four soldiers at once, was- “That must be The Iron Bull!”

The Iron Bull was, at this distance, little more a hulking wall of muscle. He towered over the Tevinter soldiers he was fighting, wielding a massive battle axe with both hands. A huge pair of horns spread out in opposite directions from the crown of his head, which was probably why, Silas mused, that The Iron Bull wasn’t wearing much armour over his torso. He noticed that the Qunari did not move much from where he’d planted himself, letting the enemies come to him instead. As Silas and his party eased closer, Silas could see that The Iron Bull seemed to have _one_ notable weakness; he had a patch over one eye, and favoured his left side because of it.

Which was probably why he didn’t see the Tevinter archer who was aiming an arrow right at him. Silas moved before he thought the action through fully, calling down the omnipresent lightning from the sky and striking the archer at the top of one of the spikes on his helmet. The archer screamed and fell where he stood, and The Iron Bull whipped around, his good eye widening in surprise.

“Chargers,” The Qunari called, shifting his weight and shouldering his axe, his voice booming above the cacophony of the rain and surf “stand down! Krem, how did we do?” He turned toward Krem, away from Silas, and focused his attention upon his soldier. Krem, in response, turned to face him.

“Five to six wounded, Chief! No dead.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” He issued another order, and then, finally, turned his attention to Silas. “So, you’re the Inquisition. Pretty flashy entrance you made.” Standing closer to him, Silas was awed at just how damn _tall_ The Iron Bull was. He towered over them, and Silas needed to shield his eyes from the rain to see him properly.

“Figured you might have missed that last swing with an arrow in your head,” Silas retorted, and the Bull grinned.

“Ah, I’ve had worse. What do I call you, specifically? I’m not much one for that Chantry stuff.” Silas grinned, grateful that at least that _someone_ wasn’t going to be calling him “Herald” all the time.

“Silas will do fine. Krem tells me you want to join up with the Inquisition; If Chantry stuff isn’t your thing, why are you so interested?” The Iron Bull gave Silas an approving look, and then gestured for him to follow. Silas fell into step with him, and the Bull led him away a bit from the rest of the group.

“That damn hole in the sky isn’t just about one people or one country,” Iron Bull growled when they were far enough away. Silas nodded, frowning. “Far as I can tell, the Inquisition is still young. You need soldiers, ones who know what they’re doing, and you’ve seen us fight now; my company is the best you’ll find this side of Tevinter.”

Before more could be said, they were interrupted by Krem. Bull immediately turned his attention to his soldier, and Silas smiled. Clearly, the Bull put his Chargers first. It showed, and it was something that definitely swayed Silas in his favour.

“I assume you remember Cremisius Alclassi, my lieutenant. How are we doing, Krem?”

“Throat-cutters are done, Chief.” Krem smiled at Silas by way of greeting. “Nice seeing you again, Silas.”

“Likewise.”

“Done already? Have them check again; don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away.” The Iron Bull chuckled, then added, “no offense, Krem.”

“None taken. At least a bastard knows who his mother is; puts us one up on you Qunari, right?” Casting a sidelong grin at Silas, Krem walked back the way he came to deliver his orders. Next to him, The Iron Bull was still laughing.

“You seem close-knit with your company,” Silas commented. Bull grinned.

“They’re a damn good bunch of misfits, and fight fiercer than Darkspawn. That’s been tested by the way,” He added as an afterthought. “We’re expensive, but we’re worth it. You don’t need to worry about a damn thing, the money will take care of itself. What’s your ambassador’s name? Josephine? She’ll take care of all that.”

“How did you know-?”

“I’ve done some research. The money will take care of itself. And you won’t just be getting the Chargers; you’ll be getting _me_.”

“Aren’t you part of the Chargers?” Silas asked, puzzled. The Iron Bull gave Silas an appraising look with his good eye, and Silas gazed back, unflinchingly.

“I have something else to tell you, before you decide either way.” He said finally, “Might be useful, might just piss you off. Have you ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?” Silas frowned, shook his head. “Not surprising. Dalish don’t come near enough to find out. It’s a Qunari order; handles everything from information to loyalty - spies, basically. Well,” He paused, and surreptitiously glanced around. “ _We_ handle things. I get Ben-Hassrath reports, and send them back. Might be beneficial to your Inquisition if I share them.”

“And what would you be sending back?”

“Nothing sensitive, nothing that compromises you or your people. The Ben-Hassrath are worried about the Breach; that kind of out-of-control magic is dangerous for everyone. I’m to send reports back on what’s happening.”

“If you’re a spy, why would you tell me?” Silas was impressed; Leliana would be thrilled to get more information, most likely, and Silas appreciated the bluntness with which The Iron Bull brought it up. It wasn’t a _secret_ , it was part of who he was. Silas could respect that. But, since he seemed to, more often than not, be “the one in charge”, he felt like he had to ask.

“Because whatever happened at that Conclave was _bad_ . That Breach needs to be closed. Whatever I am, I’m on _your_ side.” Bull grinned suddenly. “So, you in?”

Silas glanced back toward where Cassandra, Varric and Solas were chatting with a few of the Chargers, and then back to Bull.

“I think Leliana would kill both of us if I didn't tell you that you'd have to run your reports back to the Ben-Hassrath by her first,” Silas began contemplatively. Bull nodded solemnly, obviously having expected as much. “Otherwise, I see no reason why I shouldn't welcome to the Inquisition,” He grinned, and  after a moment, watched the grin split across Iron Bull’s face.

“Krem!” The Iron Bull called, catching the lieutenant’s attention, “tell the men to finish drinking on the road! The Chargers just got hired!”

After some deliberation, the group determined that Cassandra would guide the Chargers back to Haven and settle them in, while the Iron Bull would stay with Silas, Solas, and Varric at the Storm Coast. They had received a raven at camp while they were gone; Leliana received some intelligence about the Grey Wardens’ whereabouts - or rather, where they _weren't_ . According to Leliana, the Wardens had all but vanished from Ferelden and Orlais, their last sighting having conveniently been along the Storm Coast. Silas didn’t think he’d ever read a missive from the spymaster that sounded so _frantic_ before. Granted, it was still written with her usual crisp and to-the-point standard, but Silas had read enough of her reports by now to know the difference.

Upon inquiry, Cassandra explained that Leliana’s lover - who was consequently also the Hero of Ferelden, to Silas' utter surprise - was among the ranks of the Wardens. She was, apparently, on a mission that frequently left her out of contact for long periods of time. Silas could understand, then, why Leliana seemed adamant about finding out more about the Wardens; he would be worrying himself to death, too, if his lover’s order (if he had a lover) were suddenly absent. He wrote back to her as quickly as he could find dry parchment, assuring her that they would look into anything Warden-related that cropped up along the Coast.

Which was how they found themselves traversing the rain-slicked slopes of the, surprisingly mountainous, Coast. Prior to leaving, they’d rubbed bear grease into their leathers and cloaks in an attempt to rain-proof them. It worked, at least a little. The rain was more likely to slide off than soak in, which was a relief. The Iron Bull had shrugged off the attempt, insisting that “a little humidity never hurt anyone.”

“Besides,” he’d said, chuckling, “this is like Seheron, only cooler.”

“Just warn us before you turn around,” Varric replied with a sidelong glance, “might poke someone’s eye out otherwise.”

“I’d be a little worried if I was at risk of poking  _ your _ eye out, Varric.” Bull grinned widely. “Wouldn’t be from the cold in that case.”

“Andraste’s ass, Qunari. How long have you been waiting to make that one?”

It didn’t take them long to root out the local rebel militia, the self-proclaimed Blades of Hessarian. According to Scout Harding, they believed they were doing Andraste’s will by rooting out the weak and corrupt. Their present leader, however, seemed to enjoy taking things with a grain of salt, and the Blades of Hessarian were on the Storm Coast acting little better than highwaymen - all in the name of the Bride of the Maker.

“Wonderful,” Silas grumbled, beginning the trek in the direction Harding had said the Blades’ fort was. “Find me someone who believes they are doing the work of the Gods, and I will show you a fool.”

“Isn’t that what the Inquisition is doing, Boss?” Bull asked from behind him. Silas jerked his head in sharp negation.

"The Inquisition may have roots in religion, but our focus is the Breach, not the Maker or Andraste, no matter how much the Chantry wants to think otherwise. We can argue theology when the hole in the sky is closed.”

“Might be able to use it to your advantage though,” Bull pressed, “They call you the Herald of Andraste, after all. Who better than to give these waifs a purpose than the Chosen One himself?”

“Oh, Creators, don’t call me that ever again.” He glanced back, but saw Bull smirking at him. “You’re an ass,” he accused, and Bull barked out a laugh.

“You’ll learn to enjoy it, Boss.”

It seemed that Bull had a point after all. After a short, almost effortless encounter with a couple of the Blades - Bull’s prowess was truly indispensable - Silas found a note in one of their pockets. The note detailed how corrupted their leader had become, and how one would overthrew him, within the Blades’ tradition. It appeared that all it required was a challenger, and a trinket.

“If this works, then perhaps we can sway the Blades of Hessarian to help the Inquisition,” Silas mused aloud. “We should look for somewhere to camp, and get a requisition list to Harding. See if she can get us the materials for this... “ He squinted at the water-stained parchment. The ink was running in places, making it difficult to read. “Mercy’s Crest.”

Harding was proving to be a miracle-worker. Not only had she sent the supplies needed, but also a small contingent of Inquisition scouts and soldiers to keep the camp safe and stocked in Silas’ party’s absence. Silas responded with profuse thanks, and the promise of another ale once they returned to Haven. Bull arched a brow, but Silas waved him off.

“She’s good at what she does.”

“Uh huh.”

 

* * *

 

With Mercy’s Crest completed and strung around Silas’ neck - because of _course_ he was going to be the challenger - the group continued their way to the Blades of Hessarian’s compound. They reached it in the late afternoon on their fourth day at the Storm Coast. It was a small compound, cradled against the sheer wall of a blind canyon. Two guards were posted at the entrance, as well as two archers on towers behind the palisade.

“Should we come in the front door?” Silas wondered aloud, from their vantage-point further up the mountain. He could see most of the encampment from their location, and could count the number of people therein.

“If they follow true to their traditions, your Crest should get you to their leader unharmed,” Solas replied at his right, squinting. “If they are as corrupt as their letter said, however, we may be walking into a dangerous trap.” Silas had thought the same, and his brow furrowed, crumpling his vallaslin.

“Well, I don’t intend to go in alone. If they all attack us, then we can fight our way out… Right?” He glanced around at the party, and after casting looks at one another, they all nodded. “Any suggestions for how to not die?”

The Iron Bull squinted down into the camp with his good eye, and Silas got the feeling that he was picking out much more detail than he let on. “There’s the leader. The big guy, with the axe, over by the stables.”

“How do you know for certain?” Solas inquired, peering down like the rest of them. Silas wasn’t sure either, they all looked the same from here. Bull chuckled, and Silas looked back at him instead of the camp.

“He’s the only one standing around doing nothing.” Well, that was true; the leader seemed to be doing a lot of goading and ordering, but not a lot of _doing_. “That axe is a dark metal, probably obsidian; heavier, cold resistant. Long haft though; if you can get in close and hit him fast, he won’t have time to use it on you.” Silas glanced at Solas at the last bit, and Solas nodded in minute affirmation.

“Someone who spends that much time delegating is likely cocky,” Varric chimed in, bracing himself on the trunk of a spindly, rain-soaked tree. “Spend most of his time talking, underestimating you.”

“Okay, I think I’ve got a way to handle him.” Taking a deep breath, Silas nodded to himself, and began picking his way down the mountainside toward the front of the fort.

“Halt!” The guard cried when they spotted him. “You are violating territory claimed by the Blades of Hessarian! Turn back now, and live!”

“I come to challenge your leader!” Silas called back, his magic amplifying his voice to rise clearly above the ceaseless rain and roll of thunder. “I bear Mercy’s Crest and demand the right to battle!” He took off the amulet and held it high above his head. The two guards exchanged a look, then called for the gates to be opened. Behind Silas, the others approached, each of them wary as they made their way into the camp.

The leader stood ready, obviously warned of their approach, in what appeared to be the training arena. He wore ring mail and bore a lethal-looking great axe, which he currently had resting blade on the ground, his hands cupped over the pommel.

“So,” He boomed, and Silas could see a few of the Blades of Hessarian flinch, “the little elf thinks he can defeat me?” Silas bristled, baring his teeth in a sneer. “Many have tried, and they have all failed. What makes you any different?”

Silas clenched his fist. The Mark crackled dangerously, and a few of the Blades gasped. _Good,_ Silas thought, smirking, _they've heard of me._ This fight wasn't about combat; it was about power displays. _So let's show them what I've got._ The air around the camp grew sharper, as electricity jumped and ran down Silas’ arms and across his shoulders and chest. Little more than armour, of a sort, but it looked dangerous. He looked up at the leader, and watched the shem take a partial step back and raise his weapon at the sight of Silas’ eyes. They glowed white with the force of his magic, and when he spoke next, his voice thundered through the canyon.

“I’m the Herald of Andraste, and I challenge you on behalf of the Inquisition.”

Silas surged forward, Fade-stepping once, until he was directly in front of the leader. His hand came up, fire igniting in his palm, and he grasped the leader’s face with his open hand, digging his fingers into the man’s eyes. The shem screamed, but Silas’ other hand was on the haft of the battleaxe, and a shockwave of electricity through the weapon had the leader releasing it convulsively. Silas dropped his hand from the leader’s blistered face to redouble his grip on the axe, leaning back a little on one leg. He reared the other leg up, and as the shem staggered, Silas drove his foot into the man’s stomach, knocking him back further. The leader stumbled back and curled against himself, and Silas stepped back as well, bracing his footing and hefting the axe.

With a grunt, and a exertion of more effort than Silas had ever used to wield anything, he brought the leader’s own weapon around against him. The keen obsidian blade shore effortlessly through chainmail, leather, and skin. Blood spurted against Silas’ hands, and his arms trembled with the impact as the axe blade embedded into the shem’s clavicle. The shem screamed in agony, his good arm raising to clutch at his shoulder. Silas wrenched the axe free and gripped the haft a little more firmly. With a roar from something primal deep within, Silas brought the axe around again, drawing it across the shem’s exposed midsection. The leader of the Blades of Hessarian dropped, entrails and blood leaking from the abdominal gash, his screaming reduced to a soft gurgling, and then silence.

Silas trembled from his toes to the tips of his ears. He dropped the axe, and it embedded in the soft earth with a dull noise. His shoulders heaved with each breath, and he didn’t notice anything around him until he felt a large hand on his shoulder. Bull stood in front of him, looking down at him with an understanding gaze.

“Come on, Boss. Let’s find you somewhere dry to sit down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself. I had to introduce Bull and Krem. Bull's my main warrior in DA:I and I frigging love him. Nothing against Cass or anything though! 
> 
> No unfamiliar elven. For those of you who don't remember, _"hahren"_ means, essentially, "elder" and _"fenedhis"_ is a wonderful elven slur that roughly translates to "wolf dick".
> 
> A special thanks to [Kerrikles](http://kerrikles.tumblr.com/) for helping me figure out combat dynamics with that battle axe


	5. Letters from Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for people who suffer from anxiety disorders, dysphoria, or other related conditions. It's not heavy, but I don't want anyone having a bad episode from reading this chapter. Stay safe!

That night, around the hearth of of the Blades of Hessarian - who were now apparently loyal to _Silas,_ rather than the Inquisition - Silas didn't realise his hands were shaking until Bull pushed a cup full of steaming liquid into them.

“Drink it,” the Qunari instructed. “It’ll help.”

“What is it?” Silas asked, peering speculatively into the cup, grateful for the distraction. In the firelight, he couldn’t tell the colour, but the steam that wafted up had a definitively pungent earthiness to it. With a final glance at Bull, Silas took a tentative sip. The drink, some kind of tea it would seem, was bitter, but it wasn’t worse than the regenerative potions that Adan made, so Silas nursed it in his cupped hand. Having something to hang onto helped.

“Field remedy for nerves,” Bull explained, watching Silas closely. “I make it for my guys when we’ve had a rough job.” Bull canted his head just slightly, to better watch Silas with his good eye, “it’s different, isn’t it? Taking a man’s life with a weapon instead of magic.”

“I’m _Dalish_ , Bull. I _have_ killed things without using my magic before,” Silas snapped in reply, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry,” he muttered. Bull didn’t know. He _couldn’t_ know that Silas hadn’t been allowed to use his magic for years. Leliana likely didn’t even know.

“Feels different though, doesn’t it?” Bull said again, waving off the apology. Silas just kept staring into his cup. “ _Drink,_ Boss.” Silas obligingly took another sip, and Bull nodded in approval. “You did well in that fight; he couldn’t even touch you."

“I kind of wish he would have had the chance to try,” Silas mumbled, surprising himself. Whatever was in the tea was taking effect; he began to feel steadier, could see the maelstrom of thoughts that had been haunting him all evening more clearly. Guilt wracked at him like the claws of some fierce beast, tearing at him from the inside out.

“He made his choice by underestimating you,” Bull replied in a gentler tone than Silas expected, causing him to look up at the Qunari. “You announced what you wanted to do; it was his choice whether to take your challenge seriously or not. He didn’t, and now he’s dead.” They fell into silence then, broken only by Bull occasionally reminding Silas to drink the remedy before it got cold.

When Silas finally finished, Bull hauled himself up and dusted his hands off.

“Don't worry too much about “should have” Boss. Just keeps you up at night with things you can't change.”

“I just…” Silas looked down into his cup, watching the dregs swirl around “I don't want all this to make me wake up one day and not recognise myself.”

“That’s entirely up to you, Boss.”

 

* * *

 

There was very little evidence of the Wardens’ presence to be found. A couple of water stained letters, and journal entries that had been torn out and left behind at an abandoned campsite. Whatever reasoning the Wardens had for being on the Coast, they were certainly gone now. Silas decided to unanimous agreement that it was high time to leave.

The incessant rain wore at all of them, eroding away their patience until even Bull was muttering under his breath. They all worked to strike camp as quickly as possible in the mire their campground had become. Mud speckled everything, and all Silas wanted in the world was a dry bed. He was even willing to endure more water if a hot bath could scrape the sludge from his skin.

By the time they finally arrived back at Haven, they’d dried off at the very least. Silas’ teeth chattered as he dismounted from one of Dennett’s mounts, the familiar cold wind of the Frostbacks biting into his still-damp underclothes. Even still, to Silas, the chilled air was refreshing, and the swirling snowflakes danced as high as his spirits in the green glow of the Breach.

“Creators, it’s good to be back,” he murmured, startling the stable hand that took his mount’s reins. “Give her a good scrub down, she probably feels as gross as I do. And a few apples if we can spare them.” He instructed off-hand to the boy, who bobbed his head with a polite “Yes, Herald.” Turning, Silas trudged toward the main gates, raising his hand in a wave toward the Commander, who could almost always be seen with the drilling soldiers. Cullen nodded to him in recognition, then turned and barked orders at panting recruits. Silas smiled at the familiarity of it all, pushing the heavy doors open himself and entering the town proper. Coming back to Haven felt like coming home.

He’d almost made it to his cabin when a familiar lilting voice called to him from the direction of the Chantry.

“Herald! A word before you retire, if I may?”

“Good to see you again, Josephine.” Silas turned to face her as she approached, but the weary smile sharpened into something more alert at the sight of her expression. “Problem?”

“Not exactly... “ The ambassador worried her lower lip between her teeth, then, as if deciding to just get on with it, pressed a letter into his hands. “We’ve received a letter from your Clan.” The shock on Silas’ face must have been evident, because Josephine fidgeted more. “We were… Unsure of how to proceed, given your distaste for...” She trailed off uncomfortably, unable to even meet his gaze.

Silas felt like he was in the middle of a very peculiar dream. _Maybe I drowned in the Storm Coast after all_ , he thought absurdly. Why would anyone in his Clan reach out to him? They’d effectively banished him…

“I will… Read this… And I will tell you how to proceed in the morning.” He replied stiffly, grasping the letter tightly in his hand while simultaneously backing toward his door. Josephine took this as the dismissal it intended to be and scurried away, casting furtive looks over her shoulder at him. Silas turned and immediately sequestered himself in his cabin, sliding the bolt home to lock it.

 

> _Clan Lavellan offers greetings to the Inquisition and wishes it well in sealing the Breach that has opened in the sky…_ Silas’ gaze scanned the page, a frown marring his vallaslin and deepening with each sentence he read. They assumed he was held captive, asked for him to be released. Offered any assistance they could to the Inquisition. Then... _We have on occasion been forced to defend ourselves from those who saw us only as potential victims…_

 

Silas barked out a humourless laugh, crumpling the page and throwing it into a corner of the room. _Now that there’s the chance I’m useful, the chance I have some importance… Who do they think they’re fooling?_ But nobody here knew… They likely had their suspicions, of course; any comment he'd made about the Dalish was… _No wonder Josephine was so hesitant…_ _Should I tell them? I told her I’d give her a course of action in the morning… How_ much _should I tell them…?_

Silas paced his cabin, grappling with old anxieties and thoughts that he thought had disappeared since he’d joined the Inquisition. He caught his reflection in the mirror hanging by the door, and paused in his ambulation to examine himself. The dark ink of his vallaslin was muted against his caramel skin in the warm glow cast by the hearth fire. Small scars around his nose and mouth, one from a childhood injury, several others from blades or claws that got too close... His vivid amethyst eyes stared back at him, shadowed with the demons he wished he could banish back to the Fade like the ones that poured from the Rifts. _At least those ones I can fight…_ No matter how he tried, he could still see parts of him that he hated. His shoulders were too slender, his throat too thin. The curve of his jaw was too soft, and only dusted with the finest of hairs… Disgusted, Silas turned away from the looking glass sharply, unable to bear the scrutiny any longer.

Silas staggered back to his bed and sank down onto it, burying his face in his hands in a vain effort to quench the hot tears that came spilling out. His stomach felt like there were daggers slicing him from the inside out, and he sobbed harder, his thoughts kept coming back around, over and over; his Keeper’s voice, his Clan’s voices, all derisive and all shaming, all hating him for what he was… For _who_ he was. Now, though, they weren’t alone, the voices of those in the Inquisition joined them, warped from their usual friendliness into mockery, _if they ever found out, they can’t find out, they…_ They’d hate him, cast him out again, he could just _see_ the looks on their faces _wretch, freak, unnatural, possessed…_

The clamour in his mind mounted, and Silas jerked into standing, staggering blindly toward the door. He wrenched the lock free and lurched out into the snow-scuffed town, down toward the main gates. Though he passed others, he was blind to those saluting him, their concerned whispers or inquiries warping into snapping at his heels. He pushed the main gates open, leaning all his weight on them, and stumbled into the darkness, deaf to anything besides the howling in his mind.

 

* * *

 

Silas didn't know how long it had been when they found him. He wasn't even really sure where he had gone, didn't remember even leaving his cabin. He looked up from the ground when he he saw feet approach the other side of his barrier. In front of him stood Bull and Krem, both with concern written across their faces. A bit further behind were Commander Cullen and Scout Harding. Harding was already turning to go after assuring herself Silas wasn’t dead, no doubt to report to Leliana that he’d been found.

“Hey Boss,” Bull said quietly, crouching down and gently tapping on the barrier with a forefinger. “How about you bring this down? You don’t need it anymore.”

Silas felt like he’d slept a thousand years in the same position. The cold stole into him, making his limbs feel leaded, and his joints as stiff as dry leather. His sluggish mind took awhile to process Bull’s words, but they registered eventually, and he raised a hand to dispel the barrier. Bull leaned in slowly when it came down, scooping Silas up as if he weighed nothing, and rose to his full height.

“The Herald needs blankets and a warm hearth fire,” Cullen snapped to attention the moment the barrier was down, turning to the scout that replaced Harding at his side. “See that it’s done. Perhaps a hot bath, once he’s warmed a bit.”

“Sir!” The scout snapped a salute and disappeared into the night. Silas could feel the heat emanating from Bull’s still somehow bare chest, and his eyes closed.

“Nuh uh, Boss,” Bull rumbled, jostling Silas awake. “No sleeping. Got to get you warm, first. Krem, go find some liquor. Dwarven if you can. Tonight we bunk with the Herald.”

“You got it, Chief,” Krem saluted, but didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he reached up and grasped Silas’ shoulder. “You okay, Silas?”

Silas couldn’t respond at first; his throat didn’t seem to want to work. Eventually, he swallowed, tears pricking his eyes for some absurd reason. “I don’t know.” Krem nodded and gave him another squeeze.

“You will be. See you in a bit, Herald.” Krem hurried back toward Haven, Bull following at a slower pace. They walked in silence until snow scuffed under Bull’s boots. Silas looked down, and realised belatedly that he’d hidden himself under a dock on the frozen lake. He shuddered and curled in on himself a bit more. Bull paused, and looked down at Silas with his good eye.

“Was it the mark?” He asked bluntly, startling Silas from his reverie. It took longer than it should have for Silas to realise what Bull meant. He eventually shook his head, negating the assumption. Bull nodded and continued forward, setting Silas down before they reached the recruits’ tents. “Don’t let them see you upset,” he advised, “it'll just scare them. Here,” Bull added, shoving a small bundle of elfroot and a recipe into Silas’ hands. “If anyone asks, you were getting this for Adan. Recipe from the old cabin back there.”

“They saw me leave... I… I think.” Silas frowned, the gap in his memory slowly lightening from utter blackness to a hazy, unfocused grey.

“Doesn’t matter. They’re going to see you come back, too.” Bull patted him on the shoulder, and waited until Silas began walking himself before falling into step beside him. Silas braced himself, his hand fisting around the recipe so hard he nearly crushed it entirely. There was sure to be whispering, speculation…

There wasn’t. There wasn’t anything. Those who had been out when Silas bolted had gone home, and those that milled about were en-route to or from the tavern. Bull nodded in approval and steered Silas toward his cabin with a firm hand on his shoulder. Silas only remembered to breathe when he got inside.

Krem was waiting for them, along with a couple of the Chargers. Between them, they’d managed to pull a whole barrel of liquor, and five flagons. Krem rose from the corner of the room, and Silas’ stomach bottomed out when he saw the letter gripped in the mercenary’s hand.

“This what set you off?” The lieutenant asked, just as blunt as his boss. Iron Bull’s eye narrowed at it, as if trying to infer the scrawling writing through Krem’s fist. Silas could only nod, sinking down onto the edge of his bed, still holding the recipe and drooping elfroot. “Who’s it from?”

“My…” Silas cleared his throat, Bull’s advice filtering through his mind, finally. _Don’t let them see._ “My Keeper. She seems to be under the impression I’m being held captive.” The Chargers shared a look between one another, and one of them stepped forward. She was tall, and lithe, and had- _vallaslin_ …

“You’re Dalish.” Silas said, his tone more accusatory than he meant. The woman smiled, nodding.

“That’s what they call me around here, yes.” The woman approached him as one would a wounded halla, and Silas narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “They rejected you, that much is obvious. Can I ask, _lethal’lin,_ how they hurt you?” Silas’ reply must have been evident on his face, because the Dalish woman smiled grimly and nodded, “all right.” Her lilting voice was so familiar it only made Silas ache more. “I'll leave, but do try to remember that not all of The People are monsters, Herald.” Silas kept his gaze averted until he heard the door close behind her, and only looked up when Bull loomed in front of him once more.

“I get you’re hurting, Boss, but Dalish is just trying to help. No need to be like that to her.” His tone was chastising, but not hard. Behind him, Krem opened one of the casks and filled three mugs with ale, spilling nary a drop. “How about you tell us what’s up so we can help next time?”

Understanding was something Silas still wasn’t used to at all; he didn’t know how to reply. He stared at his hands, trying to collect himself. _Too small, too dainty, look at them, the hands of a woman. Skin’s too soft, no matter how hard you hold your staff._ Silas squeezed his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

“I’m _not_ a woman,” he choked out, tears threatening once again. He didn't see the look that Iron Bull and Krem shared, surprise, mingled with sudden understanding. Krem stepped forward, crouching down so that Silas had no choice but to look at him.

“Neither am I, Silas,” he assured, and Silas’ head shot up to stare at him with wide eyes, “and that’s okay.” Krem blurred as tears overflowed, and Silas choked out another sob, this time, of barely-believed relief. Krem reached up and squeezed Silas’ shoulder. “Come on, ale’s going to waste. We can talk all night if you want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I think it's shorter than usual. This chapter was rather difficult to write because a) I've never myself experienced the level of dysphoria that Silas does, and b) anxiety attacks are hard as hell to write. Off to Val Royeaux in the next chapter, though! Time to get this plot moving!
> 
> For those of you keeping up with the Dalish words, _lethal'lin,_ according to [Project Elvhen,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848?view_full_work=true) means "blood kin" or "my dear friend"


	6. Tout ce qui brille n'est pas d'or

The journey to Val Royeaux had been relatively easy, which was surprising considering the size of their party and their path along the Kingsroad. Silas had never come this deeply into the heart of Orlais. As soon as they cleared the Frostbacks, he was glued to the window, staring out across the landscape. He wasn’t sure how he felt about coming to Orlais. Silas had been taught by Keeper, they all had, that this place was their ancestral birthright; the shemlen had taken it by force, and broken the majestic, enchanted Arlathan into the scattered Clans. They had been taught that the earth here was steeped in blood and magic and the pain of the Elvhen. All Silas felt as he gazed out the window was detached curiosity; this may have once been Elvhen territory, but those were not _his_ people. _Then again,_ he thought bitterly, the memory of the letter from Keeper still sour on this tongue, _I’m not really sure who_ are _my people anymore._

Solas, on the other hand, looked out the window of their carriage with a muted reverence, occasionally pointing out Elvhen architecture or explaining the purpose of murals they passed. Silas wasn’t sure how Solas knew so much about Arlathan or Elvhen. When he asked, Solas just smiled at him.

“I have spent much time in the Fade,” he replied serenely, “and have Dreamt in sites relevant to the history of Arlathan. This is not my first visit to Orlais.”

They could see Val Royeaux before they even got close. Glittering towers of gold and ivory white, dappled with blues like midsummer’s day stretched upward, surrounded by a protective stone wall as tall as fir trees. They could hear it too, the din of a thriving city filtering toward them on the wind. Merchants calling, people talking, the screech of seabirds. Silas’ eyes widened as the towers loomed ever closer, stretching toward the heavens as if those gilded fingers could claim that too. Their carriage arrived at the stables outside the city walls, and their party disembarked. Stable hands in faded colours hurried forward to tend the horses as everyone got their bearings. Silas couldn’t believe how much the city _glittered_.

“Let us get this over with,” Cassandra muttered, already trudging toward the ornate golden gates. Solas followed after her, looking around at the statues and plaques, but Silas lingered. _Why would a city want to cage itself in? Protection from enemies, certainly, but… Isolation from everything else._

“Come on, Bristles,” Varric came up beside Silas, grinning up at him. “If you think the city’s excessive, wait until you see the people.”

Inside the city was even more splendid than the skyline. Miles of fabric connected the central towers to the buildings around it, diffusing the sunlight and washing the city in reds, blues and purples. Fountains with crystalline water shimmered from every corner, spilling from stone lions’ mouths. The whole central courtyard was lined with cobbled stone, and after only a few minutes, Silas’ feet missed the softness of grass.

Worse were the people. They all wore elaborate clothing, stitched with vivid colours and dizzying patterns, their silhouettes distorted by high collars, puffed shoulders, or strange, wrapped hats. All Silas could see were the glints of their eyes, sometimes their lower faces, for the whole of the market wore masks of metal and porcelain. Silas resisted the urge to shrink closer to his companions in dis-ease, and instead walked with his shoulder squared and head held high.

 _They will talk about you,_ Josephine and Leliana had told him back in Haven, _and will look for any weakness, any break in your armour. All the more, because you are Dalish; most of the City Elves in Val Royeaux are servants, and Dalish are seen as frightening. Do not let them see anything that you do not want them to, for they will surely use everything you give them against you._

Silas scoffed softly, looking around. These shemlen needed physical masks to hide their true selves. Josephine and Leliana called it The Great Game when they’d been explaining Orlesian culture to him. _Why would anyone make sport of deceit and identity? Don’t they have any idea what it’s like to_ not have _one?_ He thought bitterly, glowering around at the shems.   Likely not, considering the way they tittered and whispered behind their fans as he passed.  _They make mockery of those who have no such luxury..._

As they approached the Chantry, merchants shrunk back behind their stalls, and people scrambled out of the way. Silas heard murmurs of “knife-ear” and “murderer” and lamentations about Divine Justinia. Silas ignored it all, instead focusing his attention on the small accumulation of clerics and civilians that seemed to be milling about outside another set of gates. There was a small stage set up, an ornate thing of red and gold, and Silas wondered whether Orlesians did anything simply. On the stage stood an aging Chantry Mother who was passionately stirring the crowd into a frenzy. Beside her stood, remarkably, a Templar in full armour, and another off to the side.

“Templars! In Val Royeaux?” Cassandra frowned, hesitating in her step and then thinking better of it. “We would have heard had they rejoined the Order.”

“Do you think they re-entered the fold to deal with us upstarts?” Varric speculated, eyeing the templar on stage, likely to see if he could wedge one of Bianca’s bolts anywhere squishy. More than once, Silas got the impression that Varric wasn’t terribly fond of templars, and hearing a few of the dwarf’s stories in the tavern, Silas wasn’t surprised.

“Lord Seeker Lucius wouldn’t order this, not after all that’s happened--” Cassandra sputtered, but her protests were drowned out by the Mother on the stage.

“Behold! The so-called _Herald of Andraste_ , claiming to rise where our beloved Divine fell!” The cleric had apparently spotted their approach, for she pitched her voice higher, letting it carry to greet them. Suddenly the market was utterly silent, save for the birdsong and the soft gurgling from the fountains. All eyes turned to stare directly at Silas, but he ignored them. His gaze was solely directed at the Mother, who took a hesitant step back at the ferocity in his eyes. She gamely drew herself up again, though, and flung a dramatic finger toward him. “We say this is a _false prophet_. The Maker would not send an _elven mage_ to us in our hour of need!”

 _Or maybe, he thinks you’re a bunch of elitist assholes who need to learn a thing or two._ Silas smiled wide, clasping his hands behind his back to keep anyone from seeing how hard they shook. 

“I do not presume to know the will of any gods, human or elf,” Silas replied, his voice ringing out across the silent courtyard. “And I most certainly did not come up with the title _Herald of Andraste_ . That was _your_ machination, not my own.” He strode forward a few paces, each step surer than he felt. “You vilify the Inquisition and I when the true threat still looms above us! The Breach is the real threat! We must unite to stop it!”

“He is right!” Cassandra spoke up beside him, “the Inquisition only seeks to stop this madness before it is too late!” The Mother smirked, though, and with a flourish, pointed stage right. All at once, Silas felt his stomach flip, as though he’d eaten something strange. The air became leadened, and he gasped for breath, struggling to stand tall in the face of the contingent of Templars that strode purposefully toward the stage.

“It is already too late!” She crowed, and all heads turned.

“Lord Seeker Lucius?” Silas heard the incomprehension in Cassandra’s voice, and the tone of hurt she so gamely tried to squash. Silas shifted his stance, and swallowed the gorge that rose in his throat. His skin was crawling, and he could feel all their eyes on him. _Steady…_

“The templars have returned to the Chantry!” _Then why are you cowering at their approach?_ Silas wondered, a frown crumpling his vallaslin. “They will face this “inquisition”, and the people will be safe once more!” Any security the crowd gained from that assertion was quickly stolen back. The Lord Seeker passed the Chantry Mother without so much as a glance, as the templar behind him raised an armoured fist. Silas was silent as he watched the Chantry Mother cry out in surprise and pain at the blow to her head, her cap knocked askew and her legs buckling under her. Her fellows rushed to gather her away from the danger, staring up at the Templars in wide-eyed fear. Beside Silas, Cassandra grabbed for the hilt of her blade, then released it, realising the futility of her actions. Behind them, Varric made a disgusted noise.

The Templar that had been on stage with the Mother seemed equally distressed. He started toward her, anguish on his face, until Lord Seeker Lucius put a hand on the Templar’s shoulder, stopping him.

“Still yourself,” He advised, his voice cutting through the silence that the scene had caused. “She is beneath us.” The Lord Seeker turned to face the crowd then, and Silas had the sudden sense of something slimy crawling up his back. He shuddered, and stood a little straighter. He’d have tossed up a barrier, too, but for the Templars. _Too many magic dampeners here, like standing in a thick fog. I can barely breathe, let alone cast. The Fade’s songs seem so far away… How can anyone live like this?_ After what felt like forever, though it must have been only a few seconds, the Lord Seeker’s gaze met Silas’. The slimy feeling intensified, and Silas scowled.

“And what was that supposed to prove?” He called up, hands fisted behind his back, “besides the rumours of how Templars torment those whom they’re sworn to protect?” Around him was muttered outrage, some directed at him, some at the Templars. _Glad it’s an even split._

“We hold no allegiance or fealty to that braying cow,” the Lord Seeker riposted, sneering down at Silas. The back of Silas’ mind prickled uncomfortably, and he glared right back. Something was _off_ about the Lord Seeker, but Silas just couldn’t pin it down. Whenever he felt he was close to figuring it out, the answer eluded him like smoke. Cassandra didn’t seem to sense anything amiss, because she moved forward, raising a hand in hail.

“Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that we--”  
  
“You will not address me, Seeker Pentaghast,” the Lord Seeker snarled contemptuously. Cassandra stopped short, and her dark, heavy brows furrowed together in her perplexity.

“Lord Seeker?” Her tone almost sounded hurt, and Silas and the others moved to stand at her side. The Lord Seeker turned to face them, his lips curling with such oily conceit that Silas’ hackles bristled once again.

“Creating a heretical movement and raising an _elf_ as your puppet, so called Herald of Andraste… You should be ashamed.” His words cut like a whipcrack, and Cassandra took a shocked step back, bracing as if expecting physical impact. “You should all be ashamed!” Lord Seeker Lucius raised his voice to the milling crowd. Worried whispers silenced again, but he couldn’t stop the uneasy looks that were thrown around the crowd. Silas stayed where he was, watching the Lord Seeker proclaim how far superior _he_ was - not the Templars, Silas realised curiously, just _him_ \- and how Val Royeaux had failed to garner the Templar’s protection.

There were uneasy looks between some within the Order too. Others were dead silent, and a strange song sang behind their helmets. _Cullen is going to be so unimpressed..._ Silas turned to the still gobsmacked Cassandra, and gently began to lead her away with a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on, there’s naught for us here.” Speaking directly to her seemed to bring her back into the moment. She straightened, and began walking with her usual purposeful strides.

“Apparently. I do not understand, Lord Seeker Lucius has never been one for grandstanding. He--”

Her wondering was cut off by Varric grabbing her by her hand and yanking her back, just out of the way of an arrow that lodged itself in the ground seconds later. A couple nobles cried out in shock, but many were still too stunned by the Templars’ announcements to have noticed. Cassandra wrenched her hand from Varric’s grasp and was halfway to her sword by the time Silas forestalled her defence. He crouched down by the arrow, then glanced around to try and figure out the trajectory. There were hundreds of balconies in Val Royeaux, and the archer could have been on any one of them; however, billowing cloth and milling people made locating them nearly impossible.

Silas turned his attention back to the arrow, impressed at the force with which it had been driven into the cobblestone ground. Attached to the shaft was a small rolled up note, tied with red twine.

“Well, that’s a curious way to send a message,” He quipped, reaching for the parchment. The note on it was brief, and looked almost as though a child had written it. The hand was large and looping, and the borders of the letter were covered with doodles, presumably of what the letter itself contained. “According to this,” He began, “there’s an enemy of the Inquisition waiting to strike in Val Royeaux-”  
  
“Throw a copper into the crowd,” Varric muttered behind him, “You’ll probably hit one.” Cassandra snorted beside him, then stepped forward to read the note over Silas’ shoulder.

“It says we are to find… Things that are red? We are to find these things around the city. Apparently they will lead us to the enemy to whom the letter refers.” She frowned, as if scowling at the parchment would determine whether or not it was leading them into a trap. “This is a waste of time, we should return to Haven and inform Cullen and Leliana about what transpired here.”

“Cassandra, if whomever wrote this letter is a potential ally, then we should maybe play along,” Silas replied, rolling the parchment up and tucking it into the satchel at his hip. “Besides, you already sent off one of the scouts, and there must have been more to stay and watch the proceedings. Leliana likely already knows more than we do.” _The note said to_ _check the cafe, the docks, and the markets…_ Silas looked around. Most of the milling people had dispersed, although there were a few watching them curiously. They whispered behind their hands, thick accents making the words they spoke incomprehensible, if they were even speaking the common tongue in the first place. Silas could all too easily imagine what they could be saying, and shied from the thoughts, lest his mind take hold of them and spin them into something far worse.

In an attempt to ignore the creeping dread, Silas turned about, trying to discern where everything was. The central pavilion was more of a circle, with streets shooting off like the spokes of a wheel. Thankfully, Silas could hear the call of seabirds over the music that filtered through the city, and made toward the street that the stage had been erected in front of.

“I think the harbour is this way,” he gestured for the others to follow, already on the other side of the little stage. “It doesn’t really hurt to look.” Silas turned toward his companions. Varric was already gamely hauling himself up over the stage, as was Solas. “Cassandra, the least we can do is follow the lead about the enemy to the Inquisition.” Cassandra made a disgruntled noise, and then pulled herself over the stage after them.

* * *

They indeed found “red things” in the places the note had listed. Silas had begun to feel foolish, traipsing all over Val Royeaux on this scavenger hunt, however when they retrieved the final clue, everything had paid off. They all lead to an area of town that connected the docks to the merchants’ quarter. It was there that they discovered the letter had been accurate; the party came upon an Orlesian noble at the centre of a group waiting to strike against the Inquisition. While Silas doubted that the Orlesian could see beyond his own pomp, let alone any real threat that the Inquisition posed, what followed was certainly entertaining.

As it was, Silas hadn’t lifted a finger against the nobleman. An elf girl had stepped in just then, and after a moment of witticism, plunged an arrow through the human’s heart. Silas hadn’t really been sure if that was excessive, or preemptive. But he hadn’t had time to figure it out.

“So you followed the notes well enough, glad to see you’re… Aaand you’re an elf. Well, hope you’re not “too elfy.” Silas blinked, not quite sure just what the strange elf meant by that. He exchanged a glance with Solas, who looked as sceptical as he. “I mean, it’s all good, innit?” She went on, grinning at Silas, “The important thing is: you glow? You’re the Herald thingy?”

“Can I make that my official title?” Silas smirked, and heard the telltale snort of disgust from Cassandra, and stifled snickering from Varric. “Herald Thingy sounds much better than Herald of Andraste.”

“...Riight…” The elf looked at him like he’d gone insane, and Silas thought perhaps he had somewhat come unhinged. _Must be all this Orlesian food we’ve been eating recently._

After an interluding fight that had involved trouser-less reinforcements, the elf - who introduced herself as Sera - explained about her involvement with the Red Jennies, and how they would best benefit the Inquisition. Silas had to admit, having an ear to the ground would certainly prove useful for them; they had too many nobles sniffing around them as it was, in his opinion. Although Sera was somewhat _eccentric_ , the fight they’d gotten through proved her to be an excellent a marksman. Despite Cassanda and Solas’ misgivings, the girl seemed eager to help, and so she joined the next group of Inquisition soldiers and scouts on their way out of Val Royeaux on their way back to Haven.

* * *

 It was their last day in Val Royeaux, and Silas was anxious to leave. It had been too long since he felt the forest beneath his feet, and the walls had begun to feel confining, rather than grand. He started to frequent the rooftops of the city, or had otherwise gotten into the habit of visiting the Inquisition camp just outside the city gates, just to get past them. He was on such a trip presently, his pace brisk and his eyes on the road ahead of him.

The last thing Silas wanted to do was meet the reproachful gaze of one of the Royans, muttering to themselves about the “imposter knife-ear”. Which was why it took until one of them approached him and placed their hand upon his shoulder that he truly noticed that anyone was trying to get his attention. The person introduced himself as an emissary of Madame de Fer, whoever that was. He delivered an invitation to some sort of party, of all things, and then with a sweeping bow, hastily made his escape. Silas stared down at the ornate invitation in his hand. The scroll was made from the most delicate vellum, almost transparent it was so thin. Curling script announced his personal invitation to, and the time and location of, this Madame de Fer’s “salon”.

“Huh…” Silas mused, unceremoniously pocketing the invitation and continuing to the Inquisition camp. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that Scout Harding made it back, and spent the afternoon chatting with her at the fireside with mugs of warm broth. He felt himself relax into the familiarity of it, grateful that this was the last of the city for awhile.

“So, I received my first party invitation,” He began casually, just as the sun dipped below the stretching reach of the city’s walls and the sky was shot through with brilliant golds and blues, as if in mimicry of its glittering towers. Harding glanced at him while refilling their broth, brows arched. “To some noblewoman name “Madame de Fer’s” salon tomorrow.” The dwarf shrugged and passed Silas his cup, which he took, blowing on it contemplatively.

“Will you go? Seems to me like you don’t want to be here anymore.” Harding’s tone was sympathetic, and she glanced up at the walls encircling the city. “Probably why I haven’t gone in yet; it’s too…”

“Unsettling?”  
  
Harding laughed, nodding. “That too,” her expression changed as she continued, “so are you going?”

“I don’t see how it could hurt. Josephine’s always going on about how we need to make nice with the nobility, how you never know how they could be helpful... “ Silas’ nose wrinkled. “ _Fenhedis…_ ”

“I second that.”

Silas shook his head, and tactfully searched for another subject. “Varric received a raven this morning, something about his book? He’s on his way back to Haven as we speak.”

“Yeah, the Iron Bull sent word ahead this morning that he’d be here by now…” As if hoping he’d materialise out of the growing dark, Harding peered past the glow of the firelight, only to uncharacteristically jump when Krem came and sat down on her other side.

“Chief’s writing letters, we’ve just come into camp. That Leliana of yours is a damn slave driver, Herald.”

“I’m sure you’ve said that in her presence, too.”

“No, I like to keep my body parts attached.” Silas snickered, passing a cup of broth to Krem.

“So, interested in gate-crashing an Orlesian party tomorrow?” Silas grinned, and received a grin in response.

“Invitation’s only addressed to you, Boss,” Iron Bull reminded him as he sat down beside Silas, taking the cup Silas passed him with a nod of thanks. “We probably won’t be let in.”

“Do I look like I care?” Silas replied bitterly. “Don’t want to walk into the mouth of a dragon without a little backup.” 

“Ahh, now _that_ would be fun…” Bull chuckled, a dreamy expression coming across his face.

“ _Fenhedis.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! Sorry this one took so long. Between the holidays, work, and my own procrastination, I just flaked completely on this chapter. 
> 
> I'm sorry to Sera fans if you were excited about me writing her, I balked. I think she and Cole will be the hardest to write, simply because they think so abstractly from how I do, it'll be interesting to see. I promise there will be interactions with her in the future, I'm just a chicken-shit!
> 
> The title of this chapter translates, loosely, to "Not all that glitters is gold." I had a bit of trouble with this, as I don't speak French, but I ran it by a friend of mine who does, and they said that while there isn't really a French variation of the saying (that they know of) this was the closest we could get.


	7. The Ice Queen

Silas squirmed in the dress armour he was being wrestled into, scowling at the Spymaster across the room from him. “Must I wear these? I daresay if Madame de Fer sought an audience with me, she would likely wish to see  _ me _ . At this rate, the woman will go blind from how metallic I am!” Leliana merely grinned at him, giving him a once over. 

“Perhaps we should dress you in leathers instead… You  _ are _ Dalish, after all... “ Silas’ eyes narrowed. “You may feel more comfortable,” she amended.

“Leliana, I have perfectly good armour of my own-”  _ Itches… Perhaps if I just…  _ Silas tried to roll his shoulders, receiving a scowl from the elfin girl in front of him who was getting his arms into a pair of ornately worked leather vambraces, cured to a rich mahogany colour and accented in gold filigree.    
  
“Yes, but it is  _ worn _ armour, Your Worship; the Orlesian nobility would eat you alive. No, perhaps just the chest-plate, the rest in studded-- yes, perfect.” Leliana directed the servants who were getting him ready, while Silas’ present mission was to just-- 

_ “Stand still for Maker’s sake.”  _ One of the irritated servants snapped as one of the clasps slipped from their hands. Silas immediately dropped his hands back to his side, looking sheepish.

“You really must integrate  _ some _ plate mail in your armour, Silas, it offers better protection.” The Nightingale continued, as if nothing had happened.

“It’s too heavy, I need to be able to  _ move _ , Leliana! Surely you understand that, you’re a bard!” 

“Of course, but you’ll find Orlesian and Antivan armourers are very proficient in maintaining flexibility… They must, you know. Oh! I know! I will speak to one of my contacts in Antiva, he can get you the  _ best _ battlemage armour…” 

“You’re having fun dressing me up like a poppet, aren’t you?” Silas accused, and only got another grin in reply. 

“I haven’t any idea what you mean, Your Worship.”  
  


* * *

 

Madame de Fer sure knew how to throw a party. Silas was amazed by the palace that she was hosting her ‘gathering’ at; almost as amazed as the other guests were at his presence. There were at least a fifty Orlesian nobles milling about on the grounds outside the main entrance, chattering amongst themselves and barking at servants for more refreshments. All of that stopped, however, when Silas got off his Hart. He was alone; Josephine and Leliana cowed him into going solo. “The invitation is only addressed to  _ you _ Silas” Josie had scolded, “it would be incredibly detrimental to the Inquisition’s reputation if you brought along an uninvited convoy!” So, here he was, alone, with fifty sets of eyes on him.  _ Great. _

The master of ceremonies hadn’t even a chance to announce Silas’ name, before the whole pavilion fell dead silent. Silas couldn’t help but liken it to the forests, when all the birds stopped singing in the treetops because a predator was nearby. Perturbed, Silas stepped into the party, trying not to twitch or fidget with the armour Leliana and he had finally agreed upon. The milling nobility began their tongue-wagging, and Silas just kept moving forward, nodding with a somewhat tense smile at those who greeted him. As Silas passed groups of people, their tittering died away, until they simply  _ stared _ after him. Silas’ shoulders strained with the urge to hunch, and he resisted the desire to look at his feet. He was  _ invited _ here; he had every right to wander this pavilion just as any of them did. 

An elfin servant came forward with a goblet of some shemlen red wine when Silas entered the main salon, and Silas took it, just to have something for his hands to do. Perhaps the wine would help him stop shaking, ease his nerves a little with the fog he knew it could bring. The servant smiled sympathetically and bowed deeply, before hurrying away to attend other guests. Silas’ stomach wrenched with guilt, and before he knew it, half the goblet was gone. Some of the bolder Orlesians took this as a cue to approach, and soon, Silas was being whisked into conversation. 

“Such a pleasure to meet you, my Lord Herald, the same faces at every event becomes so tiresome.” Silas grit his teeth to stave off his cynicism, and instead cast a charming smile at the nobleman who’d addressed him. It was so  _ difficult _ , but perhaps if he just altered his delivery... 

“So glad to create some variety,” He replied, mindful to keep his voice light. The nobles tittered at him, and a few more approached, encircling him as if he were some novel form of entertainment.  _ Look how he walks and talks like one of us! Come one, come all, see the knife-ear who’s not a servant! Watch him walk among us like an equal!  _ Silas’ bitter thoughts flickered across his face for the barest moment, but the shemlen didn’t seem to notice. They’d enclosed around him completely, now, and he had no way of escaping. So, Silas wiled away precious time answering inane questions. He asked his own, too, of course; he hadn’t a clue who Madame de Fer was, or the state of Orlais, despite his time in Haven’s libraries. Shemlen noble bloodlines made his head hurt at the best of times, and Orlesians had seemed to take it to quite the next level of complexity. 

“I have heard such curious tales of you,” One lady of the court preened, peering at him through her silver-rimmed mask, “I cannot imagine half of them are true!”

“Oh, they definitely all are,” Silas replied, offering the woman what he hoped was a charming smile, though he couldn’t keep some of his boredom from seeping into his tone, “and then some.” A flurry of titters broke out, and the lady he was speaking to clapped delightedly. 

“Better and better! The Inquisition should attend more of these parties!”

“The Inquisition,” drifted a new voice from the stairs, “what a load of pig shit!” Silas turned to watch the man descend down the staircase toward them, the haughtiness in his step telling him immediately that the Orlesian was all bark and no bite.  _ Big talk for someone who’s got a deflated soufflé on his head. _ He thought, much to his own amusement. His grin seemed to irritate the man, though, for his next words were more heated when he stopped before Silas. “Washed-up Sisters and crazed Seekers! No one can take them seriously!” The crowd that had formed around Silas was now watching this man instead, whispering amongst themselves and casting dirty looks about, as if that would solve anything. 

“I honestly don’t think you should talk much about being taken seriously,” Silas replied blandly, taking the barb because _why not?_ “When you walk around looking like _that.”_ Some laughter followed his comment, and beneath the nobleman’s mask, his face was flushing red. “Though, perhaps that would save your neck in the long run, if you’re stupid enough to speak of the right and left hands of the late Divine so rudely.” The man looked about to blow already, and Silas had barely spoken. _Isn’t this fun, shem?_ _I’m not one of your servants, you can’t bluster and scare me away so easily._

“Everyone knows the Inquisition just an excuse for political outcasts to grab power!” the nobleman declared, his complexion beneath his mask and doublet reaching an impressive shade of maroon. The noise Silas made in response was so disgusted that Cassandra would have been proud. The man looked even more insulted; perhaps it was a dire insult to use guttural noises in Orlais.  _ Perhaps that’s why Cas does it so much? _

“Yes, you got us! Congratulations! That giant hole in the sky with demons and Gods-know-what-else pouring out of it is just a  _ ruse _ so we can overthrow your shemlen monarchies!” Silas sneered at the nobleman, crossing his arms over his chest. “You honestly can’t be that stupid.” The nobleman teetered indignantly, his gloved hand balled into a fist that shook with poorly-suppressed rage.  _ Oh come on, hit me, I know you want to... _

“You presume to call yourself the Herald of Andraste,” The nobleman replied with a thin, contemptuous smile, “yet by your own words, you do not even believe in the Maker or his Bride!”  _ Caught that, did you? Well done, someone get the man a prize. _

“Why, because I said “Gods” instead? I presume nothing, certainly less than you; I’ve made no claims to holiness, and certainly haven’t encouraged people to call me the Herald of anything, least of all Andraste.”  _ Though I can seriously relate, from what I’ve read _ .

“Aha! Here, before all these people, you admit to being a pretentious usurper!”   
  
“... Are we having the same conversation?” Silas’ perplexion lasted only seconds, for in his ignorant righteousness, the shemlen had walked closer to him, so close, in fact, that Silas could smell the wine on his breath. 

“We know what your Inquisition truly is,” The nobleman leered down at him, to which Silas glared right back up. “If you were a man of any honour, you would step outside and answer the charges, knife-ear.” Gasps around them told Silas that even though he  _ was _ an elf, that had been too far. Silas’ fingers twitched, warming with the fire so easily cast, but then, the nobleman froze, just as he was reaching for his blade. The man had  _ literally _ frozen in place, and made a gasping, choking noise at the shock of it. 

“My dear Marquis,” Another voice from the top of the stairs, one which had Silas backing up, and backing down almost immediately. “How unkind of you to use such language in  _ my _ house… To  _ my _ guest.” Smooth as ice it was, and the owner of the voice knew it too.  _ She sounds like Keeper… _ Oh, this  _ was not _ going to end well. The woman who glided down the stairs was the very image of power, in Silas’ opinion. Opulent and glittering white dress-armour against dark skin, with a headdress that insinuated horns, Silas had never seen anyone quite so beautiful or terrifying in his entire life. “You know such rudeness is…  _ Intolerable.” _

“M-madame Vivienne!” The Marquis sputtered and gasped, his teeth chattering together, “I humbly beg your pardon!” 

“You should,” Madame de Fer replied bluntly, coming around to face the Marquis now, “whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?” The threat was implied, and the Marquis whimpered, barely audible. Silas knew that Madame de Fer had heard it, however, although her face remained impassive behind her ornate mask. Silas went stalk still in the next moment, though, when Madame de Fer turned to face him, giving him a once-over that made him feel like she was using a blade, rather than her eyes. “My lord Herald, you are the wounded party in this  _ unfortunate _ affair; what would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?” 

This was a test, of course. To see what Silas was made out of, to see if he was vindictive, or too kind-hearted, or something else. The Marquis looked at him too, eyes widening when he saw the utter contempt in Silas eyes when he looked back at him. 

“I really couldn’t care less, Madame de Fer,” Silas replied, offering her a wan smile. “As hostess of this soiree, and owner of this beautiful villa, I leave justice to be dispensed from your capable hands.”  _ When confronted with a pit-viper, always try to appear as least threatening as possible while still standing your ground….  _ Silas had read that somewhere, one of Minave’s books… Seemed to apply here, too. Vivienne de Fer nodded once, and turned, purring like a cat that just got a saucer of clotted cream. 

“Poor Marquis,” She crooned, grasping the man by the chin in what looked like a vice grip and making him yelp. “Issuing challenges and hurling insults like some Ferelden Dog-lord…” She released him, and with a snap of her fingers, the ice encasing the nobleman disappeared. He dropped to a bow, hands braced on his knees while he coughed and hacked, body quivering with chills. Madame de Fer smirked, scenting blood, and smoothly cocked her hip to one side. She made a subtle show of looking the Marquis up and down, tutting in disappointment at what she saw, “And all dressed up in your aunt Celandre’s doublet.”  _ Ouch, _ Silas thought, trying very,  _ very _ hard not to snicker. “Didn’t she give that to you to wear to the Grand Tourney? To think, all the brave Chevaliers who will be competing left for Marcame his morning… And you’re still here.” Vivienne de Fer’s eyes glittered with malicious glee at the dressing down, smiling sweetly all the while. “Were you hoping to sait your damaged pride by defeating the Herald of Andraste in a duel, or were you hoping he would end the shame of your failure?” 

Silas was beginning to feel bad for the Marquis; his shoulders had slumped and he hadn’t risen from his bowed position. Even his hat seemed less inflated. None of the spectators dared move to help him, they barely even dared to breathe. By the time Madame de Fer released the poor sod from her presence, he walked several feet shorter than he had before, and quickly left the salon.

With her quarry properly eviscerated, Madame de Fer turned her attention to Silas. Once again, he felt the razor-like edge to her scrutiny, and Silas suddenly felt that every measure he had taken to ensure his secret wasn’t found out was laughably insufficient. He didn’t like this feeling whatsoever, and squared his shoulders, lifting himself to his full height, though it didn’t even remotely meet hers. She smiled, though, and moved toward him, lithe as a prowling cat. 

“I’m delighted that you could make it my Lord Herald!” She greeted, “I’ve been dying to meet you! Shall we speak alone?” Sensing it rather as a demand than request, Silas followed after the enchantress until they reached a quiet side-room. Madame de Fer waved her hand and the candles lit, casting the room in a soft, warm glow. There was an open window here, letting in the early autumn breeze. Barely any of the leaves had changed, and the cooler air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and rose. “Allow me to properly introduce myself: I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, and Enchantress to the Imperial Court.” 

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Lady Vivienne,” Silas smiled, bowing respectfully. He could see the approval on her face, in the slight twitch of her lips. “I apologise, though, if I’ve upset your guests.”   
  
“Nonsense my dear! This is not the first time the Marquis has been a disgrace to his family; he will likely be disowned for what happened here today.” The offhand way that Vivienne said this didn’t sit right with Silas, but he didn’t say a thing. He wasn’t here to pick fights, he was here to gain allies. “But I didn’t invite you to the chateau for pleasantries!” 

“What did you ask me here for, then, Lady Vivienne?” Silas asked, not taking his eyes off her for an instant. Vivienne smiled, though the look of cool calculation never left her gaze.

“My dear Herald, I won’t bite,” she laughed charmingly, and despite having seen what the woman was capable of downstairs, Silas had to admit that he liked her. Her self-confidence was utterly effortless, something Silas longed for, but had yet to achieve. Perhaps, if they were to become allies, she could teach him.  _ No, that’s ridiculous, what would you say to ask? Hi, can you teach me to be more comfortable in my own skin, I haven’t felt the way you act ever in my whole life? What’s your secret? Utterly ridiculous…  _ “--I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.” Silas smiled at her, nodding his head.

“The Inquisition could only benefit from an individual of your calibre and experience, Madame Vivienne,” he replied, remembering Josephine and Leliana’s reminders that flattery was likely to take him places, especially if it were true or worked toward the ego of the recipient. It seemed to work, for Vivienne laughed and called him charming, although Silas could see that he was transparent to her sharp eyes. For everything that his advisors had told him about The Great Game, he realised then that Madame de Fer was an expert. Still, he kept his mask on, as only one truly hiding could, and offered to lead the enchantress back to her party, if their business was concluded. It was, and he guided her back toward the main salon, where her guests were waiting. At the top of the stairs, he stepped away from her, but she caught him up again.  

“Won’t you stay, my dear?” Madame Vivienne requested in an offhand sort of way, watching him closely. Silas shook his head, giving her a brief bow in excuse. 

“No, I’m due to report back. We leave Val Royeaux in two days’ time, and there is much to attend to before we depart.” On that point, he wasn’t fibbing; there were reports to write, and scouts to dispatch with final orders, items to purchase and resupply, including a couple of books from a merchant that was eager to sell to anyone, Dalish or not. “Although, of course, you are welcome to see to your own affairs before joining us; we don’t wish to presume any pressure.” 

“Not at all, darling, I’m quite sorted. I shall leave with you in two days’ time.”

* * *

Silas was still thinking of Vivienne de Fer when she sauntered up to their camp, attendants in tow. They were those willing to join the Inquisition as well, and Vivienne assured him that her entourage were of the highest standard for research, scribing, archiving, and healing. There were also a couple Tranquil that she insisted remain under her protection, that she assured could work wonders with enchantments, and weren’t a bother at all. Silas hadn’t expected Vivenne to come with a group of personal assistants, though he likely should have. So, he sent off a raven to Josephine to warn her of the new arrivals, and made a point of meeting each of Vivienne’s people personally, treating neither one nor the other any greater or lesser than the next, including the Tranquil. 

What the shems did to their unruly magic users was unsettling, and the Tranquil made Silas uneasy. Both Solas and Varric assured him that it was a normal reaction, especially as a magic user.

“The poor creatures, how they must suffer,” Solas commented, watching Vivienne parade her gaggle of attendants by as they made toward the front of the column returning to Haven. “To be irrevocably cut from the Fade, to no longer feel the touch of it, no longer able to dream… What cruelty the Chantry has devised…” Silas merely made a noncommittal noise in response; of course Solas would abhor the very thought of Tranquil, he practically lived in the Fade. Varric, alternatively, had just shuddered and called them “creepy”, then resumed polishing Bianca. 

Silas met up with them again later, just as they were about to leave the gleaming city for good, when a lilting voice rang out behind them.

“If I might have a moment of your time?” As one, Silas and his companions turned to look at the speaker. An Elven women with vallaslin, wearing human robes most commonly adorning Circle mages approached them. Her sallow skin contrasted magnificently with her dark hair, and there was an urgency in her eyes that had Silas approaching her with little fear of harm.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona!” Cassandra, behind him, sounded stunned, and Silas faltered. The leader of the Mage Rebellion was an elf? He wasn’t sure if he should be proud or not. The Grand Enchanter approached Silas directly, barely heeding Solas’ inquiries about her safety.

“I wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste for myself,” She said to Silas, appraising him.  _ Creators, I’m so sick of being looked at like a tool to be used. _ “I saw what happened in the with the Templars; perhaps my people are the wiser option, if you seek to close the Breach?”

“I was thinking that, yes,” Silas mused. “Would they be willing to lend aid?”

“The mages merely want their freedom; the Breach threatens that freedom. They would do anything they could to help.”

“Why weren’t you at the Conclave?” Silas asked, still wary. Perhaps he’d spent too much time in Orlais, or just around politics, but he was feeling… Wary… Of this seemingly open-faced offer.

“You’ll notice Lord Seeker Lucius is alive and well, too. We sent negotiators in our stead, in case it was a trap; rather obviously, the decision was a wise one.” Fiona looked between the scrutinising faces, and sighed. “Perhaps an alliance could help us both. Meet me in Redcliffe Village, where we mages have been given refuge by King Alistair. We can speak in greater candidness there.” A shimmer in the air caught both their attention, a simple illusion spell meant, in this case, Silas presumed, as a warning. Fiona turned immediately, and headed down one of the side-streets. “Au revoir, my Lord Herald.” Once she was completely out of sight, Silas turned and looked at his companions.

“Come, now we’ve even more reason to get back to Haven quickly; the War Council will want to hear about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the big delay everyone, but I don't seem to be getting these up very regularly. Thank you to everyone who's still reading! I'm super excited, because our favourite Tevinter mage is going to finally _finally_ make an appearance. (I know I'm excited).

**Author's Note:**

>  _“Te! Telaas’esay sal’dianan!”_ \-- "No! You cannot make me stop again!"
> 
> _“Felas, da’lin. Te’nu’na, roghemah’rya.”_ \-- "Be calm, young one. I will not hurt you, but you must endure this."  
>  \---  
> Thank you for reading my first chapter! If you noticed any formatting errors in the chapter, _please_ let me know! I transferred this from Google docs, and even in the editing window on here, the formatting isn't completely obvious.


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